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' DREAMS 




:APT. CHARLES KINO 


m 














































































By Capt. Chas. King, U.S.A. 


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Under Fire, illustrated. The Colonel’s Daughter, illustrated. 
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Two Soldiers, and Dunraven Ranch. 

A Soldier’s Secret, and An Army Portia. 
Captain Close, and Sergeant Croesus. 


umo. Cloth, #1.00; paper, 50 cents. 


A Tame Surrender. Ray’s Recruit. 

Illustrated. i6mo. Polished buckram, 75 cents. 


J. B. LIPP1NCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 















t 


BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A. 

¥ 

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Editor of 

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An Initial Experience, and Other Stories. 

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CAPTAIN DREAMS 


AND 

OTHER STORIES 


S£V_ 


EDITED BY 

CAPT. CHARLES KING 



PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1899 



Copyright, 1895, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 


Gift 

nfctoip WdUMf 
&-F 12 \90» 


Electrotyped and Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A. 




l /. 


PREFACE. 


Encouraged by the success attending their 
venture of a year gone by—their “ Initial Ex¬ 
perience” in a book of short stories from soldier 
hands—the publishers again offer to the reading 
public a little volume of similar matter. In 
this day and generation, when military dramas 
of every description are welcomed by the ap¬ 
plause of eager antf^etithusiastic audiences, it 
would seem as though 1 b an increasing demand 
had sprung up for tales of military life, and 
none are more popular than those which deal 
with our own Blue Coats upon the Border,— 
the guardians of our Indian frontier. As be¬ 
fore, the stories have been carefully chosen, 
for they who wrote them have long since won 
their laurels in the field of literature, as some 
of their number, indeed, had “ won their spurs” 


1 * 


6 



6 


PREFACE. 


upon the field of battle. That their sketches 
will be welcomed for the old names’ sakes is 
confidently believed, and that they will only 
serve to swell the list of friends and readers 
is as confidently predicted. 


The Publishers. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Captain Dreams. 9 

By Captain Charles King. 

The Ebb-Tide. 49 

By Lieutenant A. H. Sydenham. 

White Lilies. 75 

By Alice King Hamilton. 

A Strange Wound.113 

By Lieutenant W. H. Hamilton. 

The Story of Alcatraz.135 

By Lieutenant A. H. Sydenham. 

The Other Fellow.153 

By R. Monckton-Dene. 

Buttons .... ..171 

By Captain J. G. Leefe. 


7 






























































































CAPTAIN DREAMS. 



CAPTAIN DREAMS, 

AND 

OTHER STORIES. 


“ If you’re not more careful, Captain de Re¬ 
ntier,” said his better half—his much better half 
they called her in the gallant Thirty-third— 
“ you’ll get into a scrape some night from which 
even I can’t extricate you.” 

“ What’s the matter now ?” said the captain, 
dreamily puffing at his cigar, as he struggled 
hard to work his broad shoulders into the over¬ 
coat of his eldest hope—three sizes too small 
for him. “ I suppose it’s something about this 
coat.” 

“Hot so much the coat,” answered Mrs. de 
Remer, tugging energetically at the straining 
collar, then shifting her grasp to the right cuff 
and stripping it from his arm. “It’s the man 
inside; and that’s the colonel’s cigar you’ve got 

11 



12 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


between your teeth this minute, and he’s laugh¬ 
ing at you now.” 

“I thought it uncommonly bad,” answered 
the captain, with a patient sigh; “ but, if he will 
lay it close beside me, how the mischief can I 
help it ? I haven’t had a really happy moment 
since Wayne left the post. He was my one 
consolation—outside of this roof.” 

“ And no one had a moment’s peace while he 
was under it for fear of his next absurdity,” 
replies madame. “ On the principle that misery 
loves company, you and he are well matched. 
Major Wayne is the only man in the army more 
inane than yourself. He’s been arrested as a 
horse-thief, and heaven only knows what’s in 
store for you. Now do think what you’re about 
to-night, John, or I’ll be summoned to bail you 
out before morning.” 

Meekly the captain allowed himself to be 
“happit up” in his own new top-coat, his hat 
pulled well down over his eyes, and then he 
stepped slowly forth into the gathering night. 
“I’ll leave the door on the latch, papa,” said 
the lady of the house, as he lingered on the 
piazza without. “Now for your catechism. 
Sure you’ve got your night-key ?” 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


13 


Down went the right hand into the depths of 

the trousers’ pocket. “Ye-es- At least, I 

think this is it.” 

“ And your commutation ticket ?” 

Another dive—into the waistcoat pocket this 
time, fetching out a flat, gray card-case. “ In 
here,” said he, briefly. 

“And the countersign, in case you’re chal¬ 
lenged ?” 

“No-o- Well, that is I had; but it’s no 

consequence. The colonel’s coming hack with 
me.” 

“ Certainly! else you shouldn’t have gone. 
And now, if the Loyal Legion call for a few 
remarks, you-” 

“ They won’t, will they ?” asked the captain, 
with pathetic trouble in his big brown eyes. 

“ They said they would. You gave me the 
Recorder’s letter, and I wrote out a neat and 
appropriate extemporaneous speech for you.” 

“ Hah! yes, so you did. Got it all ready here 
to memorize, right in my waistcoat pocket, too.” 

“Well, be sure you memorize the right piece, 
and not begin, 4 Ladies and gentlemen,’ as you 
did the night you were installed.” 

The captain blushed. “ Wayne did worse 
2 



14 


CAPTAIN DREAMS . 


than that,” said he. 44 But here comes the col¬ 
onel. Good-night, dear.” 

44 Come hack here this instant, you wretch, 
and don’t presume to go without kissing me 
good-night. There! I presume the next I’ll 
hear of you will be in the hands of the police. 
Do keep your wits about you, John; you can’t 
always have me. Take good care of him, col¬ 
onel, and don’t leave your cigars or anything 
you value where he can accumulate them.” 

“All right, Mrs. de Remer,” sang out the 
colonel, cheerily, from his carriage. “ Tumble 
in , 4 D.’ How, driver, go lively!” Slam went 
the carriage-door, slam-bang the de Remer’s 
door, and then all was silence at Fort Emory. 

A long-suffering woman was Mrs. de Remer, 
despite the fact that she was blessed with a 
devoted husband, with happy, healthy children, 
a bright army home, a comfortable income, a 
circle of appreciative friends and as few cares as 
often fall to the lot of woman in or out of the 
army. Her husband was at once her greatest 
joy and her gravest tribulation. He was a 
lovely, lover-like husband, the other women 
said. 44 He thinks his wife the sweetest creature 
that ever lived,” they sometimes added, sigh- 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


15 


fully, for the benefit of their own less apprecia¬ 
tive lords. And, nevertheless, in his moments 
of abstraction, which were many, Captain de 
Remer had been known to say and do or to 
leave unsaid and undone things which were 
enough to turn gray the tresses of a woman and 
a wife through sheer chagrin and confusion. 
De Remer never drank, never swore, never gam¬ 
bled, never growled, never cared to wander from 
his own fireside, never saw anything to especially 
admire in any other woman’s complexion, con¬ 
versation, or conservation. Never, until his 
wife herself pointed out some peculiar grace, ex¬ 
cellence, style, or virtue in other women or other 
women’s children, was de Remer ever known to 
admit it, much less—oh, that such wisdom or 
oblivion were more widely disseminated!—to 
remark it. “No one,” sobbed Mrs. Darling, 
“ no one ever heard of his telling his wife that 
Mrs. Flight, or any other woman except her, 
seemed to look younger every day of her life.” 
Indeed was de Remer a model husband, but for 
one ludicrous failing. He was the most absent- 
minded man in all the army, except Major 
Wayne, who was a bachelor, and therefore not 
beyond hope of redemption. 


16 


CAPTAIN. DREAMS . 


Wayne’s story has been told elsewhere. So 
long as he remained, Emory de Remer’s other¬ 
wise vivid light had been hidden as it were 
under a bushel. But the major had been trans¬ 
ferred to Fort Frayne, whence new tales of new 
absurdities were frequently wafted, and now once 
more had de Remer become the central figure of 
garrison anecdote, and time and again went up 
the laughing query, “ What will he do next?” 

But not even by long-suffering Mrs. de Remer 
could have been predicted the predicament of 
the night to cotne. 

They went to town, the colonel and his faith¬ 
ful company commander, whom Blake of the 
cavalry had long since christened Captain John 
a Dreams, to attend the monthly meeting of 
the Commandery of the Loyal Legion, of which 
both were enthusiastic members. They met 
there choice spirits whom they often encoun¬ 
tered. They met, alas! two old cronies of the 
colonel, transients, en route to the far West after 
a joyous leave in the States, and when de Remer 
would have readily returned on the “ 11.30 sub¬ 
urban” to the barriers of Fort Emory and the 
bosom of his family, lo ! it was the colonel who 
stood like a spread-eagle military angel, with 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


17 


flaming speech instead of sword, and barred the 
backward way to the Eden where he would he. 

“ Dreams, old man, I promised your blessed 
wife I’d fetch you home safe, and I’m going to 
do it, by Criminy! You’re not to be trusted 
out alone this time of night. You’re just as 
apt to get to walking in your sleep and turning 
up on the Pacific express or the Black Maria as 
you are to getting home—without me. Now 
I’ll wire out to the post that we’re coming on 
the fast mail. They’ll slow up at Belt Junction 
to let us off,—I know ’em,—and my man’ll go 
round and tell Mrs. de Remer, and it’ll he all 
right. Then we four’ll go round to the club 
and we’ll have supper,—supper such as I’ve been 
spoiling to have with these two blessed old 
roosters ever since the Sioux campaign of ’76. 
It makes me ravenous to think of it.” 

It made the colonel bibulous, too,—a rare trait 
in the old warrior, and the more demonstrative 
because of long repression. At midnight the 
up-stairs corridors of the Amaranth rang with 
the chorus of “ Benny Havens 0,” and songs of 
other lands. The party was reinforced by a 
squad of club fellows ever ready for a convivial 
moment, and the nearer the time came for catch- 
b 2* 


18 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


ing the fast mail the more was it apparent that 
the colonel wouldn’t catch anything so surely 
as the curtain lecture awaiting him—with his 
headache—on the morrow. 

“I’ve got to go,” murmured de Reiner to 
others of the party. “ I’m on court-martial 
duty in the morning. I’ll slip quietly out after 
a moment or two and leave the colonel with 
you. He’ll he all right after a nap in the morn¬ 
ing, and can come out when he’s ready.” 

And that was the last seen or heard of 
“ Dreams” for many hours. Colonel Stout 
stepped off the noon accommodation looking 
little the worse for the jovial revelry of the 
previous night, but his heart sank within him 
when his coachman said, “ Where’s the captain, 
sir? Mrs. de Remer said you were to bring 
him back.” 

“ You don’t mean to say he hasn’t got home?” 
asked the colonel, in dismay. “I might have 
known he’d come to grief if he went where I 
couldn’t watch him,” he added to himself, with 
rueful forecast of what Mrs. de Remer would say 
and remorseful retrospect of the night gone by. 

“Hoa, sir; an’ they’ve telephoning to town 
an’ head-quarters-” 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


19 


“ The devil they have!” swore the colonel. 
“ That shows how utterly damned inconsiderate 
people can he, and now everybody, from the 
general down, will know I stayed in town all 
night. Hold on, Jim! I’ll call up head-quar¬ 
ters here from the depot.” 

It was a sympathetic aide who answered the 
colonel’s telephone summons and not a gruff 
department commander or consequential chief 
of staff. 

“ Heard anything of de Remer ?” 

“ Ho, not a blessed word—and the wires from 
Emory have been hot all morning. The police 
say no one answering his description has been 
run in. They say at the club he left there about 
2.50 a.m., came in again in ten minutes looking 
as if he’d forgotten something and went out on 
the run, and that’s the last they know of him. 
Colonel Tintop came down from the dining-room 
with him, but returned, they said, to rejoin you.” 

“Well, have you called up Tintop? I—I 
think he’s probably in his room yet,” stammered 
the colonel, and coloring despite the fact that 
his young friend was twenty miles away. 

“Well, we’ve called, but he hasn’t showed 
down,” was the suggestive answer. u Guess his 


20 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


head’s as bad as his hand this morning. He 
was to have taken the noon train for Omaha.” 

The colonel groaned so that the aide could hear 
it. “ Is the general in his office ?” he asked. 

“ Hope. Gone out for a bite of lunch.” 

“ Well, say, Billy, there’s a good fellow, just 
let on that I’m so anxious about Dreams I’m 
coming in on the first train. I’m blest if I want 
to face his wife this day, let alone my own.” 

And the aide-de-camp laughingly assented. 
The carriage went back to the post empty and 
the colonel to the city—full. Full, that is, of 
mingled anxiety, remorse, and resolutions. His 
first visit was to the club, and there he found 
Tintop, by no means the jovial blade he had 
parted with when they saw each other to bed 
at 4 a.m. Tintop was trouble up to the metallic 
summit of his head. 

“ I came down with Dreams because I had 
something to tell him,” said that veteran yarn 
spinner, a man who would rather go without 
his dinner that be balked in telling a story; 
“and he seemed very much interested, despite 
his having to catch a certain train. He said 
he’d have to take a cab, and they ordered one 
for him at the office.” 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


21 


“But he was back in ten minutes, I hear. 
What was that for ?” asked the colonel. 

“ They don’t know. He went into the coat- 
room in a great hurry, and then came hustling 
out, jumped into his cab and drove off a second 
time. They rang up the cabman, and he said 
he drove the captain to the depot just in time 
to catch his train, and that’s the last of him.” 

And to all intents and purposes that was the 
last of him until late that evening. Then at 
last there came a telegram to his half-distracted 
wife, “ Am all right. Had absurd adventure. 
Tell the story later.” And, very properly, her 
tragic grief changed instantly to glowing indig¬ 
nation. 

And this—told with many blushes, and with 
not a few feminine comments, and with such 
evident mortification that for a time and to only 
a chosen few was it confided—was the purport 
of the captain’s story. 

Colonel Tintop was telling his yarn as they 
came down the stairs, and Dreams was dreamily 
listening, keeping up appearances of doing so 
even while furtively watching the clock. Dis¬ 
tressed with fear of losing the thread of the 
story and thereby seeming impolite, and of 


22 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


losing the train and thereby being derelict, de 
Remer’s already overweighted spirit was sud¬ 
denly perturbed by the consciousness that it was 
too late for the street cars, too far to walk, and 
he must have a cab. Even while keeping up 
a smile of simulated interest in the colonehs 
monologue he managed to murmur a call for 
a messenger. Then, mirabile dictu! he bethought 
him of the lone ten-dollar bill that Horatia, his 
wife, permitted him to carry as a reserve in case 
of accident,—long experience having taught her 
that money in any amount was sure to slip 
through his hands. That cab, at night prices, 
would be a dollar at least, and he hadn’t twenty- 
five cents in small change. The clerk accommo¬ 
datingly broke the ten into a single five, which 
he replaced in the flat card-case he carried in 
the waistcoat pocket of his evening dress, and 
a little stack of silver—dollars, halves, and 
quarters,—which he scooped into the palm of 
his right hand, while the colonel, clinging to 
his left elbow, led him away into the coat-room. 
The club must have been making a night of it, 
for there were at least fifty overcoats of all sorts 
and sizes hanging on their hooks; but de Remer 
felt sure he remembered just where he had hung 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


23 


his, the third hook beyond the mirror; and 
there it was, its change pocket invitingly to¬ 
wards him. 

“ Whatever you do, don’t unbutton that over¬ 
coat and expose your unprotected chest to the 
night air,” had been another of Horatia’s part¬ 
ing injunctions. She had always held that offi¬ 
cers had no business ever to wear evening dress, 
because their chests were usually so covered by 
their uniforms it made it doubly hazardous for 
them to wear open shirt fronts. De Remer was 
pluming himself on his thoughtfulness of her 
injunction, and thinking how unjust people were 
in accusing him of being absent-minded, when, 
even in the midst of one of old Tintop’s long- 
winded yarns, he could think of his wife’s ad¬ 
monitions. “ I’ll slip this silver into the change 
pocket,” quoth he, “ and then I won’t have 
to unbutton the coat when I pay the driver.” 
This he did forthwith, and then the colonel 
turned him round and made him listen to the 
climax of the story, which was long a-coming, 
and by that time the overshoes were on, and 
the servant, holding the overcoat in readiness, 
announced cabby at the door, and laughing 
heartily, as he knew how, at the denouement , de 


24 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


Remer hastily shook hands, hade the colonel 
good-night, ran down the stairs, popped into 
the cab, said “Great Western depot,” and 
rattled off. 

Before they had gone half a dozen blocks, 
and he was congratulating himself on having so 
deftly escaped the toils and taken all precau¬ 
tions, Captain de Remer clapped his hand to 
the change pocket of his coat—and found it 
empty. 

Aghast he searched it. Not a penny there, 
and he could have sworn that not ten minutes 
agone he had placed five dollars in silver, heavy 
silver, in that very pocket, but, just to make 
certain, he felt in the other outer pockets, and 
with no result. There was not a cent in any 
one of them. For once de Remer acted 
promptly. “I see it all,” he cried. “I’ve 
slipped it into some other fellow’s coat. They 
were all bunched when I came out, and there 
were several very like mine, dark blue or black 
beaver with velvet collar. Back to the club, 
driver!” he shouted. “I’ve forgotten some¬ 
thing.” 

So back they w T ent, lively, for time was short. 
De Remer bounded up the steps. “I’ve for- 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


25 


gotten something,” he stammered to the servant 
who answered the bell, then bolted on through 
to the coat-room, and there—hanging on the 
third peg, just where he had left it—was the 
overcoat—his own overcoat he felt sure, and 
doubtless that stupid boy must have given him 
some one else’s, some one of his own size, and 
he had never noticed the error until that most 
fortunate discovery that it contained no money. 
In an instant he was out of one coat and into 
the other,—a servant coming in just in time to 
pull down the disordered tails of his claw ham¬ 
mer,—then out again he darted into his cab. 
“ !Now, driver, for all you’re worth!” he cried, 
“ and it’s half a dollar extra.” He carefully 
counted out the promised silver and held it 
ready in his hand. The cab went clattering 
through the cold, deserted streets, bounding 
over cross walks, slewing around corners, and 
spinning over the massive bridge with the tall 
tower and the illumined clock disk of the 
station just coming into view. Only three min¬ 
utes, by the immortal Joshua! Only one as 
they whirled under the archway, and, slinging 
the ready Jehu his shining dollar and a half, 
de Remer rushed madly through the waiting- 

B 3 


26 


CAPTAIN DREAMS . 


rooms and out among the stragglers besieging 
the gate-keeper. Luck again! Here was his 
card-case (in which was his commutation ticket) 
in that change pocket, too. Something else was 
there under the silver! Odd! He thought 
that card-case was in the waistcoat pocket where 
he couldn’t lose it, but, confound his mooning 
ways! he must have changed it before going up 
to the colonel’s spread. Late as he was, there 
were others behind him. “ Have your tickets 
ready, gents,” shouted the lantern-swinging 
official at the gate. “ All aboard, fast mail!” 
“ All aboard, Omaha night express!” sung out 
the conductors underneath the dark train-shed. 
“ Hurry up ahead there!” growled the hinder- 
most gentleman, climbing up the captain’s suf¬ 
fering shins. Blindly he tendered his yellow 
pasteboard to the gateman. a All right, Bul- 
wer—First train to the left, sir. Hurry up, 
sir! Not a second to spare! Have to run for 
it now!” Bong! went the ponderous gong. 
Whoop—who —ee an engine whistled far to the 
front. “ That’s your train, sir! Help this gen¬ 
tleman up, Jimmy,” and breathless, excited, and 
clutching his card-case in one hand, puffing, 
blowing, but successful, the runner was hauled 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 27 

aboard the rear platform and passed on into a 
crowded car. 

It was tilled, with men and women, total 
strangers to him but on terms of familiar 
friendship with one another. Jolly chat, laugh¬ 
ter, repartee, bright eyes, flashing teeth, traces 
of “ make up” all too hastily removed, and de 
Remer understood it all in no time. It was 
some large theatrical company after the last 
performance in the metropolis moving on to 
the “ next stand.” Meantime with rapidly ac¬ 
celerating speed the train was whistling past 
switch-lights, thundering over crossings, darting 
under bridges, and then at last stretching away 
like a racer over the long tangents outside the 
city. “ Bully train, this!” said the captain to 
himself. “ Any other time we’d be stopping at 
every blessed one of these suburban stations. 
We’ll be out to the Fort in forty winks, and I’ll 
have the colonel’s trap to myself. Shall I tell 
Horatia how I stowed the money in another 
fellow’s overcoat, or made myself believe I did, 
and nearly missed my train? Well, perhaps 
not to-night.” 

A peal of merry laughter attracted him. One 
of the young men in the middle of the car was 


28 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


giving a capital imitation of a noted actor in 
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. 

The captain joined in the applause and shouts 
for more. The brakeman banged the rear door 
and came in. “ Lucky we grabbed you, sir. 
This train don’t stop for nothing when once it’s 
going.” 

“ Lucky, indeed!” said the captain, as he 
pressed one of the silver disks into the brake- 
man’s palm; “ but you slow up at the Junction, 
I’m told.” 

“ Belt Line ? Certainly, sir. Be there in five 
minutes.” 

“ Bless me!” said de Remer, “ that is going. 
I thought it was twenty miles out.” But here 
another gleeful shout and clapping of hands 
took the brakeman away, and Dreams made for 
the rear door. “ Horatia says never under any 
circumstances attempt to leave a train when in 
motion, but when I do to take the rearmost plat¬ 
form,” said he to himself. A cloud of smoke 
and steam commingled closed in on the bleary 
tail-lamps; vague outlines of signal-towers, 
station-houses, and dim green and red switch- 
lights flashed into sudden sight and became dis¬ 
solving views in another second. “ Ho wonder 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


29 


they call it the fast mail!” said de Remer. 
Sometimes in the sleepy hours ’twixt twelve 
o’clock and reveille, when going the rounds as 
officer of the day, he had heard the roar and 
seen the rushing lights of this meteor of the 
night and wished he could do his weary mile of 
sentry posts in railway time. Another peal of 
laughter from within. What fun those people 
were having! and how little they’d miss him if 
he were to drop astern! A long blast from the 
deep-throated whistle far at the front. The 
captain grasped the hand-rail and peered cau¬ 
tiously ahead. The air-brakes began to grip the 
wheels, the speed to slacken. Belt Line Junction 
already ? Incredible! Yet, that’s what the brake- 
man said. Wonder why the fast mail should 
stop here, anyhow. A peep around the corner 
of the car, and far up forward were the lights 
of the station. Slower and slower every minute 
went the train. Then, at last, just as though 
decided not to come to a full stop, yet just as 
they seemed stopping, too, toot, toot far ahead 
went the whistle, followed by sudden hiss of air 
and release of wheels and sudden spring forward. 
“By Jove, she’s going on again! Now or never! 
Jump, or be carried fifty miles without a stop!” 


30 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


The next minute the captain's heels struck the 
icy space between the double tracks, then flew 
from under him. He brought up sliding, spread 
on his hack and seeing stars innumerable in a 
clouded sky. His hat flew into the darkness. 
The precious coat—unconscious cause of the 
whole calamity—parted at the back under some 
intolerable strain; and when five minutes later, 
with the train already out of sight and hearing, 
the station-master was turning away for the 
night, he was amazed at the sudden appearance 
of a disheveled tramp asking for the colonel's 
carriage. 

“ The colonel’s what ?” 

“ The colonel’s carriage.” 

“ Carriage be d—d! You want the Black 
Maria.” 

“ I expect I look so,” said the captain, meekly. 
“ I had to jump, or he carried fifty miles beyond 
the Fort.” 

“ What fort ?” 

“Fort Emory, of course! The only one I 
know of near here.” 

“Fort Emory, your grandmother! That’s 
twenty miles ’cross country, over on tother road. 
What a jag you’ve got, man!” 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 31 

“ Good heavens!” said Dreams. “ Wasn’t that 
the fast mail, and isn’t this Emory station?” 

“ See here, Johnny,” said the station agent, 
patronizingly, “you’re as far otf your base as 
any skate I’ve struck for a year, and it has been 
a good year for skates, too. Don’t you know 
that’s Number Four,—the Omaha express ?” 

“ I don’t know anything but that’s the train 
I was told to take when I showed my ticket 
for Fort Emory.” 

“ You got a ticket?” said the man, suspi¬ 
ciously. 

“ Certainly ! I showed it at the gate, and the 
railway men not only showed me that train, hut 
helped me onto it.” 

“ Yes, you look as though you needed boost¬ 
ing,” began the official, but Dreams’s distress 
was too genuine to admit of his noticing so 
trivial a point. “ How on earth can I get over 
to the Fort ?” he asked. 

“ No way better’n walking,” was the concise 
reply; “ and the sooner you start the better.” 

“But I’ve lost my hat three hundred yards 
down the track, and it’s dark as pitch. I’d like 
to borrow your lamp a few minutes. Do you 
mean there’s no train hack to town ?” 


32 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


“Not before 6.30 a.m., and that don’t stop. 
You left that hat with your uncle in town, 
Johnny, and you’ll find the pawn ticket without 
a lantern. ’Spose he wouldn’t allow you any¬ 
thing on the coat. You wasn’t thinking of 
enlisting at the Fort, was you ? You’re too old 
a sinner even for them fellers.” 

“ I’m very glad you can find any fun out of 
this,” said Dreams; “ I can’t. Then can I wire 
to the Fort and find a place to sleep ?” 

“ Hot here,” said the agent. “ The operator 
goes home right after the express is signaled, 
and he’s abed and asleep by this time. As for 
sleeping, what’s the matter with the nearest 
barn ? There’s no hotel nearer than Prairie Lea, 
five miles east. What are you tramping for this 
time a night, anyhow? What you been stealing?” 

“ Merciful Powers!” thought de Remer, 
“ what would Horatia say to that ? I told you I 
came out on this train by mistake, and I jumped 
off when they slowed up at the crossing.” 

“You said you were ticketed for the Fort 
and the train hands put you aboard the Omaha. 
How, I know they’ve no such chumps in the 
pay of this road. That story is simply rotten, 
Johnny. Come now, I want to close up.” 



CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


33 


“ Before you do so,” said the captain, with 
much dignity, “ be so good as to favor me with 
your name, that I may report your language to 
your superiors in the morning. As for my 
credentials, here’s my commutation ticket, and 
you can satisfy yourself.” So saying ,he ex¬ 
tracted the fateful pasteboard from his case and 
held it forth. The conductor had not yet 
reached the rear cars of the train when it 
reached Belt Junction, consequently, up to that 
moment, his ticket had been examined only by 
the gateman. 

Uncertainly the agent took it, glanced con¬ 
temptuously at it as though to say, “ I size your 
bluff,” and then, all in an instant, a keen, eager 
light shot into his face. He seemed about to 
speak, but with sudden self-control checked him¬ 
self, peered under his shaggy eyebrows at the 
captain, and queried: 

“ How did you get this ?” 

“ Bought it at the office in town.” 

“ And what’d you say your name was ?” 

“ I am Captain de Berner, Thirty-third In¬ 
fantry, Fort Emory.” 

The station-master glanced keenly at him 
once more, then quickly shoved the ticket into 


34 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


his pocket, saying, “ You can sit here by the 
fire as long as you like. It’s the best I can do. 
I live a quarter of a mile away, and there isn't 
a spare corner in my shack. ’Tall events you 
can’t go anywhere ’cept by walking until 7.45, 
so make the best of it.” 

With that he let himself out into the darkness 
and slammed the door behind him. Dreams 
thought he heard it locked, but that didn’t con¬ 
cern him. “ The best laid schemes o’ mice and 
men gang aft a-gley,” said he with a sigh. 
“ Now, what can Horatia be thinking ?” 

Presently he took a turn around the room. 
There was the little ticket-office, closed and 
locked, both window and door. So was the 
door to the women’s room adjoining. So, 
finally, was the door by which the agent had 
gone. “ Verily,” said Dreams, “I’m a prisoner, 
and nothing less,” for every window was bat¬ 
tened down tight and protected without by bars 
of iron. For the life of him he could give no 
plausible explanation of this. He would not 
have been surprised had the official locked him 
out, but why should he lock him in ? And then 
it occurred to him that the station agent had 
gone off with his ticket. 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


35 


Ten minutes or so he pottered about the 
room, half expecting the official to return, and 
at length, wearied, dejected, disgusted, yet 
philosophical, he seated himself in the arm¬ 
chair the agent had lugged out for him, 
propped his feet on the stove-rail, and presently 
dropped off to sleep. The last thing he saw or 
remembered was the white face of the clock 
informing him with a broad grin that it was 
4.30 a.m. 

Just at that hour half a dozen revelers came 
down from the upper regions of the Amaranth, 
were helped into their coats in the cloak-room 
and, further, into their cabs at the door. Just 
at 5.30 o’clock one of these vehicles with two 
fares, after certain intermediate stops, came to a 
halt at the Colonial Flats, and one of the two 
fares, after rummaging his overcoat pocket, 
startled the other and cabby, too, by saying,— 

“ By God, I’m robbed!” 

At six o’clock the sergeant on duty at the 
Central Police Station was wiring to various 
sub-stations, and two detectives had visited Gar- 
ritty’s open-all-night oyster parlors and Madi- 
gan’s Exchange, at both which popular night 
resorts the Hon. Jerry Brenham, M. C. from 


36 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


the Buckhorn District of the Prairie State, had 
tarried and partaken of good cheer, and been 
made acquainted with many prominent citizens 
on his flatward way. Mr. Brenham’s loss con¬ 
sisted of a flat card-case containing his railway 
passes, four or five checks payable to his order, 
some valuable memoranda, a lot of loose silver, 
and about one hundred dollars in greenbacks 
which, rolled in a wad, was in his overcoat 
pocket,—the little change pocket on the outside. 
When asked how he came to have valuables 
in so exposed a point, the gentleman blushed. 
“Well,” said he, “ordinarily I wouldn’t,” and 
the desk sergeant smiled benignantly. 

“The chances are a hundred to one ’gainst 
our getting the money back, sir,” said he; “ but 
Garritty or Madigan, either, can recover the card- 
case.” 

And yet at 8.30 that morning Garritty and 
Madigan were both swearing stoutly that no one 
at their places had “ lifted” anything belonging 
to Mr. Brenham. They were sure of it, because 
they knew every gentleman present at the time. 
At 8.40 they were still protesting, when there 
came a wire from Belt Line Junction saying a 
“snoozer” was there only an hour before who 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


37 


had one of Mr. Brenham’s tickets, and the 
ticket was still there to prove it. The telegraph 
agent had caught a message ticking over the 
wires to certain station agents on the Omaha 
Air Line, at Bulwer and beyond, warning them 
and conductors to look out for anybody with 
the Hon. J. Brenham’s “ commutations” or 
“annuals,” and here at Belt Junction had they 
run it down, and the bird was flown. 

“ Where’d he go ?” wired the police. 

“Back to town at 8.20. She was late. He 
bought a trip ticket. Said he was going to 
report me for impudence. You can nab your 
man at the Union depot if you’re lively.” Lively 
they were. Two officers were there when the 
train got in, but no one was visible who an¬ 
swered the description given. “ A feller like 
that jumped off at Omaha Junction; said he 
wanted to catch the first train up the fort road,” 
explained the brakeman. 

“Well, run him down, follow him up,” said 
the Honorable Jerry, who hadn’t slept a wink 
and was resorting to stimulant again. 

Cheerless, hatless, hungry, and mad all 
through, Captain de Berner had upbraided the 
station-master when that functionary came 
4 


38 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


around again in the morning to sell tickets for 
the 7.45. There were few passengers. A 
heavy snow was falling, and the train was late. 
Dreams would have telegraphed the Fort, but, 
argued he, “ I’ll go in on the 7.45, jump off up 
town at the Omaha Junction, and take the Fort 
local that comes along about ten minutes after 
my train gets there. I’ll be at Emory as soon 
as my telegram,” and so he would have been, 
but that it was 8.40 before the 7.49 came buz¬ 
zing and roaring through the drifts. 

In his offended dignity, he would have no 
more to say to the station-master, but he bought 
a hat from a neighborly native, who was glad to 
get a dollar for a Derby of the vintage of four 
years back, and then kept out on the platform 
until borne away by the train. At Omaha Junc¬ 
tion he learned that he was much too late for the 
Fort local, and it would be noon before the next 
train. Here there was no telegraph, but some 
shops up Erie street were suggestive of hot 
coffee and rolls and steak, and even such as 
they were they tasted palatably to the tired 
man. Then he was directed to a journeyman 
tailor who had a little shop not far away, and 
into that artist’s hands he confided the ruptured 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


39 


overcoat, beseeching him to repair the long rent 
as speedily as possible, but that expert said it 
was a three hours’ job; and while he was at it 
the captain begged permission to lay him down 
on the sofa in a little back room, and there he 
was soon placidly sleeping, so placidly that the 
noon accommodation went by without him, and 
this climax to a series of misadventures broke 
him up completely. Now he must wait until 
6 P.M. 

But not until one o’clock was the coat ready. 
He therefore decided to take the first train into 
town, where he could wire to Horatia, get a com¬ 
fortable dinner at the Amaranth, and, after a 
shave and a hair cut, would astonish her by the 
trimness of his appearance when he got home. 
Back to the station went he, and a townward 
train had just gone by. No more for two hours 
and a half. “ Go west six blocks and you’ll find 
a trolley line,” said a policeman, and so at 2 p.m. 
Dreams was whisking back to the treacherous 
core of the great city and pondering ruefully 
over the adventures of the day. “ I am going,” 
said he, “ to the railway office and make formal 
complaint of that station-master, and also of the 
trainmen who saw my ticket and put me on the 


40 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


wrong road.” And such was his intention when 
he reached the Court-House terminal at 2.45, but 
by that time he was hungry in earnest. The 
sight of ruddy lobsters, ice-rooted clams, and 
other sea dainties in the alluring windows of the 
Boston Oyster Parlors tempted him to enter. 
He dined. He treated himself to a bottle of 
Chablis, dreamily remarking how remarkably 
that little stack of silver lasted, and then to a 
cab to the railway office, where at 4 p.m. he in¬ 
quired of a clerk where he could see the general 
manager. The clerk looked askance at the 
battered, browned, four-year old hat on the 
caller’s head, and said the manager was busy. 
But the manager was a Loyal Legion man, and 
had most jovially bidden the captain to drop in 
and see him anytime only the night before. 

“ Is it anything I can attend to for you,” said 
the clerk, somewhat airily. 

“ Possibly,” said the captain; “ but Mr. Bos¬ 
well asked me to call only as late as last night.” 

“ Oh, then, I’ll take in your card,” said the 
clerk. “ He’s dictating some telegrams at this 
moment.” 

And that reminded Dreams that not a word 
had he despatched to Horatia. He was thinking 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


41 


mournfully of this and not of the card as he 
drew one out of the flat, gray card-case that 
seemed unaccountably fatter; hut Horatia often 
tucked in fresh supplies of cards when his 
pocket stock was running low. The clerk took 
it, started, got as far as the door to the inner 
sanctum, glanced at the card, then stopped short 
and looked curiously back at the visitor, who was 
now plunged in a brown study and seriously 
contemplating a railway map without having 
the faintest idea what was on it. 

Still he could hear, and what he heard was 
this: “ You tell Mr. Brenham that I’ve been 
bothered enough for one day, and if he has any¬ 
thing further to say to put it in writing. I 
haven’t time to see him.” 

But why should the clerk come out and say 
to him “ Mr. Boswell’s too busy, and says to put 
your business in writing.” 

u I’ll do it,” said Dreams, irate once more, 
and asked for pen and paper and sat him down 
to draw up a formal complaint against the rail¬ 
way officials already referred to. It occupied 
him half an hour, during which time there was 
much coming and going. Then he arose, 
handed it to the clerk, who looked at him in a 


42 


CAPTAIN DREAMS . 


puzzled way even Dreams could not but notice. 
Then he meandered off to the Amaranth, and 
met a placid-looking citizen at the foot of the 
office stairs who motioned to another, and be¬ 
tween these two Captain D. was civilly given to 
understand that a gentleman wished to see him 
at the police station, in short, the chief himself. 
De Remer wanted to ask questions, but the 
“ gents” displayed silver stars on their waist¬ 
coats and utter indifference to his wishes in that 
behalf and a degree of calm determination that 
silenced remonstrance. In ten minutes more a 
much aggrieved and bewildered captain of in¬ 
fantry was ushered into the presence of the awe¬ 
inspiring head of the force, and that shrewd 
official looked at once as surprised at Dreams 
did bewildered. 

“ Sure there’s no mistake ?” he asked the 
imperturbable “ sleuths.” 

“ None ! This is the party. We tracked him 
easy. You won’t deny having spent the night 
at Belt Junction and giving the station-master 
this ticket, I suppose,” said one, holding forth 
the old pasteboard. 

“ Of course not, and I’m glad to get it again,” 
and Dreams stretched forth his hand even as the 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 43 

other gent deftly felt in that change pocket and 
drew forth the card-case. 

“ Here’s part of the property, now,” said he, 
to the chief. “ What did you do with the hun¬ 
dred dollars ?” 

“ What hundred dollars ?” 

“ The hundred dollars that was in that change 
pocket.” 

“ I never had more than five dollars there in 
my life, and came near losing that.” 

Again a prying finger and thumb were at work. 
“ What’s this, then ?” said the officer, raking out 
a dusky roll, unfolding which he displayed a pad 
of ten and twenty dollar greenbacks. 

“ I never saw it before or knew it was there. 
Let me explain this thing. I took supper at the 
Amaranth late last night, and shoved some 
change into another man’s pocket.” (Here 
the chief looked incredulous and the deputies 
grinned with enjoyment.) “I discovered it in 
time, and went back to find that I’d got the 
wrong overcoat. I whipped it off and put on 
this, my own, which was hanging on the next 
peg, hut somebody even more absent-minded 
than I must have thrust this money in here. 
’Tisn’t mine,” said Dreams. 


44 


CAPTAIN DREAMS . 


“Well, tell ns something we don’t know, 
Johnny,” said one of them, with an affable 
smile. “ Of course ’tisn’t yours, neither is the 
card-case. The gentleman the coat belongs to 
’ll be here in a moment, and then you can ex¬ 
plain further. That the style of hat they wear 
at the Amaranth ?” 

“ That’ll do, Murray,” said the chief, in a 
cautionary tone. “ You’ve sent for Mr. Bren- 
ham, have you ?” 

“ Coming directly, sir.” 

Presently the door flew open and in popped 
the representative of the Buckhorn District. 
He was still flushed—with excitement, probably. 

u Is this your card-case and money ?” said the 
chief. 

“ It certainly is,” said Brenham, looking 
thankfully at those items, and then in a misty, 
uncertain way at Dreams. “ You don’t mean to 
say—this—gentleman ” 

“ Hobody else,” was the brief response. 

And then the two gentlemen fell to studying 
each other’s overcoat, then that which each 
was wearing, and then the latest arrival re¬ 
marked, “ Didn’t I see you in evening dress at 
the Amaranth last night with Colonel Tintop ?” 



CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


45 


“You did, and I’m in evening dress yet,” 
said Captain de Iiemer, throwing open his over¬ 
coat. 

“And I’ll he damned if that isn’t my over¬ 
coat you’ve got on,” said the M. C., “ and this 
then must be yours.” 

The chief burst out laughing. “ Gentlemen, 
do you often dine at the Amaranth ? How sup¬ 
pose you introduce yourselves to each other, 
since your card-cases seem to have got mixed 
with your coats,—and possibly other items.” 

“ By God ! Think of my wearing this all 
day, and never knowing it wasn’t my own!” 
said the Congressman elect, contemplating with 
satisfaction the fine texture and finish of the 
captain’s coat. “ I think, so far as coats are con¬ 
cerned, I’ve the best of the swap.” 

“ Then will you make it permanent?” said the 
captain; “ for I regret to say I met with a mis¬ 
hap and ruined yours, and it was all due to my 
unpardonable stupidity.” 

“Let’s go somewhere and have a small 
bottle,” said the M. C. 

“ Let me first wire to my wife that—I’ve been 
found,” said Dreams. 


46 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


Three days later the following letter was 
received at Fort Emory. 

“ Q. R. & X. Railway. 

GENERAL MANAGER’S OFFICE. 

“ February 10, 189-. 

“ Captain J. A. de Remer, 

Thirty-third U. S. Infantry, Fort Emory. 

“Dear Sir, —Immediately upon receipt of 
your letter of the 7th inst., the station-master at 
Belt Line Junction, Omaha Division, and the 
gateman at the Great Western station, were 
summoned to answer to the very serious charges 
preferred against them, and, after full investiga¬ 
tion, I am constrained to say that, while the 
station-master frankly admits having used lan¬ 
guage which would have been most reprehen¬ 
sible, ordinarily, there appears to have been 
some warrant for his suspicions, as both he 
and the gateman declare that the ticket you 
exhibited was a Bulwer accommodation made 
out for the Hon. Jeremiah Brenham, M. C. 
elect. That the gatemen should have put you 
on the Omaha train was, therefore, their duty, 
and that the station-master should have failed 
to show you the respect due an officer and a 
gentleman is a matter which he most deeply 


CAPTAIN DREAMS. 


47 


regrets, and is most anxious to atone for, and 
which I can find it easier to explain to you in 
person if you will honor me by lunching with 

me at the Amaranth next time you-” 

But here Horatia interposed. “ The next 
time you go to town to lunch it will be with 
me, John; and as for the Loyal Legion and the 
Amaranth, we’ll visit them when they introduce 
Ladies’ Nights, and not before.” 











































































• 












THE EBB-TIDE. 


/ 


C d 


5 


49 



THE EBB-TIDE. 


Lord Grosvenor and Mr. Edward Paget were 
sitting in a little smoking-room that looked into 
a brilliantly lighted ballroom in the eonntry 
mansion of Sir Hugh Moffatt, Bart. The occa¬ 
sion was that of the celebration of the return 
of Sir Hugh from America, bringing as his 
bride one of the fairest of the reigning daughters 
of San Francisco. The air was stirred w T ith 
strains of exquisite music, the production of 
finished artists carefully selected by Sir Hugh, 
and laden with the fragrance of innumerable 
cut flowers from the most renowned conserva¬ 
tories of London. Banners, jacks, and pen¬ 
nants drooped from the walls and floated over¬ 
head, reflecting in soft harmony the tints of 
colored lights shed from brackets and chande¬ 
liers hung in carefully chosen places. The gay 
company was in its most pleasant mood. The 
happiness produced by long drives in the clear 
May evening was heightened by the inviting 
brillia~ rtV of the lawns and approaches of the 

51 


52 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


mansion, lit with many colored lanterns, and 
flashing with torches, and by the cordial warmth 
of the reception that greeted each newly-arriving 
guest. 

Lord Grosvenor and Mr. Paget, being gentle¬ 
men whose long contact with society had dulled 
the keen edge that finds delight in such gather¬ 
ings, had slipped away into this little card-room, 
and were beaming complaisant approbation 
through the door upon the whirling mass of 
rich silks, flashing jewels, dress suits, and gay 
uniforms. Lord Harry had pushed back the 
ice and straws that remained from a mint 
julep, and was in the act of lighting a Turkish 
cigarette. 

“Will you have a cigarette, Paget; or do 
you prefer to commit suicide in a more rapid 
manner ?” inquired he, extending an enameled 
silver case of the questionable fumables. 

“ Thanks; don’t care to smoke, my boy. 
Fact is, I’m thinking.” 

“ Actually got an idea in your head, eh ? 
Congratulate you! Don’t wrestle with it too 
hard, or you will bring up in an insane asylum. 
Let’s punish another round of this mixture.” 
Lord Harry industriously pushed the button. 


THE EBB-TJDE. 


53 


“Yes; that is, I’m thinking Moffatt must 
have had some deuced good reason for taking 
up with that girl. He doesn’t need money, and 
he has been proof against some rushing heart- 
breakers in his day. Deuced queer, old man,— 
some good reason for it.” 

The progress of the dance at this moment 
placed Sir Hugh and his bride opposite the 
open draperies of the smoking-room. A soft, 
red light fell upon them from a chandelier 
overhead, and behind them rose the broad 
green leaves of a huge fan palm. Sir Hugh 
bent fondly over her a moment, waiting for the 
figure to begin. Her body swayed towards him, 
and her downcast eyes were lifted slowly and 
confidently to his; the effect was one of melan¬ 
choly beauty. Tall, round, and full of figure, 
with heavy dark-brown hair, rosy cheeks, dark 
eyes and long ashes,—quite an impressive type 
of San Francisco loveliness. The music started 
the dancers whirling and the happy host and 
hostess were lost in the throng again. 

The pair in the smoking-room had quit their 
glasses and sat staring through the doorway. 
Lord Harry rose and stood for a moment with 
one hand parting the drapery over the door, 
5 * 


54 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


trying to catch another glimpse of her Ameri¬ 
can ladyship. Then he returned and fell into 
his chair. 

“Phew! Deuced pretty girl. Don’t blame 
the boy. Have to congratulate him, eh? Ha! 
ha! Good reason, yes; fairly good. He mar¬ 
ried that girl for her looks.” Lord Harry lit 
another cigarette and tipped back his chair. 

“ More than looks, my boy; there is a 
romance in it. Moffatt never tripped up on 
looks alone. I heard Wilston saying something 
about it the olher day. When he gets tired 
of dancing a bit, we’ll drag him in here and 
pump it out of him. Wilston says he met 
her at a hop at the Bear Island Navy-Yard, 
up in the bay of San Francisco,—you know,— 
that place where they harbor a lot of old tubs 
that look like Bedford whalers; and where it 
takes them so long to armor a cruiser that the 
style changes five times before they get it into 
commission. Deuced romantic place for a 
romance. I say, you go out and chase Moffatt 
in; you know him a bit better than I do.” 

“ Well, you get things ready to entertain him 
at his own expense, and I’ll try and fetch him. 
I’ll have to apologize to him for being seen in 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


55 


here with you,—of course, you don’t mind?” 
His lordship rose and waggishly twisted the 
end of his moustache. 

“Go on; don’t be an idiot!” Mr. Paget re¬ 
plied, pushing his lordship through the door 
and drawing the curtains after him. 

In a few minutes behold the three comforta¬ 
bly seated around the table, with more mint 
juleps and cigarettes in the centre. Sir Hugh 
pushed back his glass with a look of pain. 

“ Why don’t you youngsters learn decent 
habits?” he inquired. “A few more of those 
mint juleps and I shall be under the unpleasant 
necessity of attending your funerals. Paget, 
be good enough to push the button. So you 
want to know how I came to marry, eh? 
Can’t stop long,—she might be looking for me, 
—but I don’t mind telling you; it was rather 
odd,—quite romantic, you may say. Jones, 
mix three Jamaica rum cock-tails, and put a 
little Scotch whisky in them. You know—the 
kind the American minister mixes for the 
King of Greece; and be quick about it.” Sir 
Hugh bit off the end of a cigar. 

“You see it’s all about the ebb-tide, a favorite 
little superstition of mine. My father was a 


56 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


naval officer, and I was born on board ship 
when his craft lay out in the Mersey, just as 
the high tide was ebbing. That doesn’t seem 
at all strange, but father never let me forget it; 
used to tell me when I was a boy that it was an 
unusual thing. Then when I was at college he 
and some of his men were killed in a boat while 
chasing pirates into the mouth of a river in 
Africa, and the ebb-tide brought the boat back 
out to sea, in sight of the ship, and they put 
out and rescued the bodies. After that, when I 
was a subaltern in the Indian service, I was 
ordered from Calcutta to join a small detach¬ 
ment up the Brahmapootra by sunset of a certain 
day. A part of the distance we were obliged 
to make in a pulling boat; but the high tide was 
ebbing swiftly, and we were delayed more than 
three hours. On our arrival we found that the 
native garrison had mutined, killed every Sahib 
in sight, and took to the tall timber. If there 
had been a flood- instead of an ebb-tide, I should 
have gone to heaven as a representative from 
Assam, instead of being here to instruct you in 
the mysteries of Jamaica rum punch. These 
little incidents, gentlemen, and some others 
that I shall not take time to tell you of, have 


THE EBB-TIDE . 57 

led me to believe that the ebb-tide has some 
sort of propitious influence over my destiny; 
therefore, when I tell you that it is to the ebb¬ 
tide that I am indebted for my bride, you will 
agree with me. My regards, gentlemen; tell 
me how you like this, and I will continue.” 

“Elegant!” said Grosvenor; “mint julep isn’t 
anywhere!” 

“ Capital!” said Paget, smacking his lips. 
“ Where did you learn to make it ?” 

“ An American chap from Philadelphia taught 
me the compound. Be careful you do not take 
too many of them.” Sir Hugh lit. his cigar. 
“I must hurry, gentlemen; some one will be 
hunting me presently. You will pardon me if 
I go on with the story ?” 

“ Yes, yes; go on!” 

“ Well, you remember that I went to America 
with Wilston in his yacht ‘ White Wings,’ and 
that he left me in San Francisco and came back 
without me. One day, while we were lying in 
the bay off Alcatraz Island, we received an in¬ 
vitation to attend a hop to be given by the offi¬ 
cers of the navy-yard at Bear Island. As all 
had engagements to go out that night except 
myself, I determined to go and represent the 


58 


THE EBB-TIDE . 


party. A Mr. McWhite, of St. Louis, who had 
been calling on us, offered to accompany me; 
and I was glad to have his society, for he was a 
genial chap, and I dreaded to make the trip 
alone. He assured me that the train for Gal- 
lego, which is a town on the mainland opposite 
Bear Island, did not leave until half-past four; 
at which time we would be joined by some other 
naval officers from the harbor, and we would 
have quite a party on our way to the hop. 

“ I sauntered quietly about the.yacht until a 
little after four, then had the launch pull along¬ 
side, dropped my valise containing my full dress 
suit into it, and steamed over to the wharf from 
which the ferry started. Leaving word with the 
coxswain that I was not to be expected back un¬ 
til the next morning at ten, I entered the ferry- 
house, purchased my ticket for Gallego, and be¬ 
gan to hunt for my promised companions. To 
my astonishment, not one was to be found. Evi¬ 
dently they had boarded the ferry-boat, so I went 
on, and, leaving my valise with a porter, searched 
the boat over and over, still without success. 
Just as the boat was casting loose I went aft, 
and beheld, in the act of crossing the plank, my 
friend McWhite, with a valise and top-coat and 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


59 


a countenance too long to appear in a single 
issue. 

“ 4 What’s the matter ?’ I exclaimed, embracing 
him. 

44 4 Matter !’ he gasped, blankly. 4 Matter! 
Why, we’re two blithering, blooming slobs! 
That’s what’s the matter!’ 

44 4 How’s that ? What do you mean V 

44 4 Why, we’re left; that’s all.’ 

44 4 You’re mistaken; we’re here. It’s the rest 
of the party that is left.’ 

44 Mr. McWhite cast upon me a look of mortal 
anguish. 

44 4 1 tell you we are left! The train we 
should have taken starts at four. All the rest 
are on it; they think we have given up the trip: 
there is no way of sending them any word, and 
there is not another ferry to Gallego until to¬ 
morrow morning. If you can - fancy yourself 
left any worse than that, you must have a very 
vivid imagination.’ 

44 He bitterly seized me by the arm and led 
me forward, where we both leaned over the port 
railing. A school of porpoises was sporting and 
blowing among the swells a short distance from 
the boat. Following them my eyes caught sight 


60 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


of a spar buoy pointing its long green finger 
towards the Golden Gate. All of the ships in 
the harbor were turned with their sterns to the 
sea, like a lot of impecunious gentlemen at a 
church fair in the presence of a subscription 
collector. Then an idea rushed into my mind: 
it was the ebb-tide. 

“ As I gazed into the water, the idea took 
possession of me, and every visible object forced 
the impression more deeply upon my conscious¬ 
ness. The ripples on the land side of the rocks, 
the surf beating on the shore, bits of wood and 
spars floating out to sea,—all contributed to 
thrust this one idea upon my thoughts and 
fasten it in my mind. I turned to McWhite. 

“‘We must go on,’ I said. ‘There is no 
turning back. Ferry or no ferry, we shall reach 
the island to-night. We must reach the island 
to-night.’ 

“ ‘ Go on; I perish with you,’ he responded, 
resolutely. 

“ The boat touched the landing and we hunted 
a vacant seat in the cars. Not one familiar face 
met our inquiring gaze. The conductor, while 
taking our tickets, said that our train stopped at 
the ferry landing at Gallego Junction, but no 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


61 


more boats crossed until next morning; neither 
did he know of a single small boat or other 
means of making the crossing to Gall ego. 

“‘We will cross if we have to swim/ I said. 
Me White averred that, if it were possible to 
avoid it, he preferred not to swim. 

“ Then the train pulled away and left us 
standing on what proved afterwards to be the 
depot platform, and a sense of what it is to be 
in a place absolutely devoid of light settled 
upon us. I have been in the Thames tunnel 
when the gas supply gave out; and I was once 
left in the heart of the great Pyramid with an 
extinguished lantern, but never before had I 
understood that overwhelming sense of vacancy 
and dread which accompanies the total absence 
of light. Not a sound except that of our own 
footsteps and the rumble of the train dying 
away in the distance broke the stillness. 

“ 4 Why didn’t we go back?’ groaned McWhite. 

444 Come on/ I answered, seizing him by the 
arm ; 4 it is too late for regrets now.’ 

44 We slowly felt our way in the direction 
towards which the train had disappeared, not 
knowing what bottomless pits or hidden dan¬ 
gers yawned to engulf us. After about fifty 
6 


62 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


yards of such progress our feet fell on gravel, 
and on looking up, we beheld the stars; then, a 
little to our left, the glimmer of a light. 

“McWhite was ready to burst into tears; I 
could hear his suppressed sighs. ‘ Have you 
said your prayers V he feebly inquired. 4 Have 
my remains forwarded to my mother.’ Then 
we struck out boldly in the direction of the 
light. Other lights began to appear, and soon 
we were aware that a village nestled in a pocket 
under the cliffs. Presently we encountered a 
pedestrian crossing our path, who, in response 
to our anxious interrogation, informed us that 
he would be glad to assist us in any way; that 
he was a Wiltshireman, and therefore glad to 
be of service to a countryman. It was four 
miles to Bear Island, and a difficult passage; but 
he knew of a single small boat owned by one 
Pete Johnson, who might be persuaded to row 
us over, provided the remuneration was suffi¬ 
ciently advantageous. The light we saw was at 
the village tavern, where Pete had his lodgings. 
We entered the hostelrie, and after a glance at 
the occupants there, tipped backed in various 
attitudes against the wall, concluded that there 
were neither philanthropists nor foreign mis- 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


63 


sionaries among them. As a precautionary 
measure we told the proprietor to ask the gen¬ 
tlemen what they would have, and during the 
excitement which followed this invitation we 
were presented to Pete Johnson. Pete rose, 
stretched his arms, and replied: 

“ 4 Ya-as; I ha’ got a bo-at. I yust get done 
work to-day, an’ I be purty tired. I tek you 
’cross for six dollar. The tide he be runnin’ 
out, and it be purty hard to row up stream.’ 

“‘ Come!’ said McWhite, taking him by the 
arm. ‘Come; there is not a moment to lose.’ 
As he passed me, he whispered, ‘ Hurry up; 
let’s get him off before he changes his mind.’ 
We hastened down to the shore, where the surf 
was beating ominously over the rocks. 

“ ‘ Pete,’ said I, ‘ it’s a long pull, and you had 
better take a bracer before you start out.’ I 
handed him a small flask that I had in my 
pocket. ‘ Can you drink out of a bottle ?’ 

“ ‘ My mother she teach me to drink out of a 
bottle, an’ I no ha’ forgot it,’ he chuckled. He 
made good the assertion by emptying the bottle. 

“We entered the craft, which Pete held 
against the shore with an oar. There were 
three seats,—Pete occupied the forward one, 


64 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


McWhite that in the stern, and myself the 
second; the valises filled the bow. Of all frag¬ 
ile crafts this was a little more so than any I 
ever entered; flat-bottomed, short, without a 
rudder, every movement threatened to capsize 
it. 

“ ‘ Have you an “ Examiner” in your pocket?’ 
inquired McWhite. 

“‘ Yes/ I replied. 

“ 4 Well, hold on to it; nothing in that will 
ever go down!’ 

“ As he shoved off*, it seemed as if we had 
joined Charon in a final journey across the 
Styx. The waves heaved troublously. A few 
lights were visible at distances which appeared 
very great; among them we detected the colored 
lights of vessels. A green and red pair appear¬ 
ing from the land side passed so close to us that 
the swells threatened to capsize us. Then we 
knew that we were in the track of the river 
boats, and we mentally parted our hair in the 
middle in heroic efforts to trim ship, lest we 
should be buried beneath the swells of some 
dark river phantom. I asked Pete if he knew 
the lights. 

“‘A tenk so/ he said. ‘I ha’ made more 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


65 


den fifty trips lak dis. De boat she pull hard 
when de tide go out/ 

“ I seized McWhite by the trousers to assure 
myself that he had not fallen overboard; he 
had not uttered a word since starting, but, 
although he was quiet, I discovered that he was 
easily riled. 

“ 4 For God’s sake, keep quiet !’ he ejaculated. 
4 You’ll have us both at the bottom in a min¬ 
ute ; and I don’t care to present myself at the 
heavenly portal when there is any danger of 
Saint Peter’s thinking that I am from San 
Francisco!’ 

“ At this instant a heavy swell twisted the 
boat half round and doused us with water. I 
heard McWhite groan fervently. 

44 4 It’s all right, old man; brace up. The ebb¬ 
tide never brought ill luck to my family yet!’ 

44 To trouble you further with the details of 
that diabolical four miles would be wearisome. 
To go out in the dark, into the middle of a bay 
with enough wind blowing to stir up the white 
caps,—nothing between you and the bottom but 
a cockle-shell of a boat with a bungling Swede 
to manage it, all for the sake of dancing a few 
figures with a lot of total strangers,—is what 
<? 6 * 


66 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


any sane person would call rabid, blooming 
idiocy.” 

“Then what the devil did you do it for?” 
broke in Grosvenor, who could not contain 
himself any longer. 

“Don’t be excited; that’s just what Fm try- 
iifg to tell you,” continued Sir Hugh. “ You 
know that, according to popular superstition, if 
you turn back after starting to do anything, bad 
luck will follow you? Well, that kept us from 
turning back, and the ebb-tide idea in my head 
kept us moving on. I felt that something was 
going to happen,—just as surely as when a man 
touches a match to a keg of powder. So we 
kept urging that Swede like a jockey does a 
favorite on the last heat, until we were fairly 
under the guns of a big man-of-war that was 
lying at anchor below the island. We passed it 
a bit faster than the usual rate, and so close to 
the ship’s side that we could see nothing at all 
to the starboard. Just as we rushed past the 
bowsprit, a huge black object leaped upon us 
like a locomotive on a parcel of rats in a tunnel, 
and in an instant more we were floundering in 
the water. 

“ We had been struck pretty hard, but fortu- 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


67 


nately we were not separated. The black object 
bad taken us close astern, just behind poor 
McWhite, and had turned the boat completely 
over, spilling us out bag and baggage, quicker 
than the whisk of a squirrel’s tail. When I got 
the water out of my eyes, I could see by the 
light of the ship’s lanterns that the boat had 
righted itself and was floating right side up 
about ten feet away, splintered somewhat, but 
not entirely wrecked. Pete was in the act of 
pulling himself over the how, and McWhite 
was threshing and struggling, first for the ship 
and then for the boat, whichever in his mad 
evolutions appeared next in sight. I was vigor¬ 
ously treading water and shaking the brine out 
of my eyes, endeavoring to collect my scattered 
ideas. Pete had recovered an oar and was in¬ 
dustriously rescuing the baggage, for the safety 
of which, thanks to closely-locked leather cases, 
there was little to fear. 

“By the time we had drifted hack opposite 
the port gangway, the watch, aroused by the 
unusual disturbance, was standing ready with a 
line, and it was my supreme joy to behold Pete 
catch it at the first throw, and pull himself, boat 
and all, towards the ladder. A second and third 


68 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


line received vigorous bites from McWhite and 
myself, and we were hauled in, drenched and 
bewildered, and more dead than alive, by the 
crew of the vessel that had been the indirect 
cause of our discomfiture. 

“We were in the act of explaining matters 
as volubly as our chattering teeth would permit, 
when a large steam-launch rushed alongside 
and stopped opposite the ladder. I heard a 
woman’s soft voice excitedly inquire : 

“ 4 Do tell us; were any of them much hurt ? 
were they drowned?’ Evidently this was the 
launch that had run over us, and there had been 
no wrongful intent on the part of the speaker, 
at least. 

“ We were still standing on the plank and the 
steps of the ladder, shivering and chattering and 
the water running off in streams. A naval 
officer stepped up from the launch and the out¬ 
line of a lady’s figure appeared in the door of 
the cabin. 

444 Any of these people hurt ? Who are 
they?’ the officer sharply asked one of the 
sailors. 

44 4 No one hurt, sir-’ Before he could 

continue, I stepped up and interrupted him : 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


69 


“ £ Allow me to introduce myself, sir/ I said. 
‘ I am Hugh Moffatt, of the British yacht 
“ White Wings/’ and this is my friend, Mr. Mc- 
White, of St. Louis. We were on our way to 
the hop to-night when your launch ran into us. 
My friend McWhite is-’ 

“ ‘ Dead, sir; dead!’ put in McWhite; ‘ these 
are his defunct remains.’ His chattering teeth, 
however, indicated that life was not entirely 
extinct. 

“ ‘ Come right aboard, gentlemen; it is impos¬ 
sible for me to attempt to express my regret for 
this unfortunate accident. You may discharge 
your boatman here or take him with you, as 
you prefer.’ 

“ ‘ How much have we damaged you, Pete ?’ 
I inquired. 

“ 4 1 tenk about twenty-five dollar fix dat boat 
up dis time. I go no more trips lak dis!’ 

“‘Very good, my man; you may go now/ 
I answered. ‘We are indebted to you in a 
manner that cannot be repaid by money.’ I 
managed to find the necessary coin. 

“We entered the cabin minus our hats, the 
water running over the floor of the cabin, and 
standing in pools under our feet. Wet and 


70 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


bedraggled, we were sorry objects to look upon. 
The naval officer turned to the other occupant 
of the cabin, and, motioning towards us with his 
hand, said: 

“ ‘ Miss Stanton, these gentlemen were on their 
way to the hop to-night when our launch cap¬ 
sized them. Permit me to introduce Mr. Mof- 
fatt, of the British yacht “ White Wings,” and 
his friend, Mr. McWhite, of St. Louis.’ 

“ 4 1 am so sorry! I hope you are not hurt! 
It is a very unfortunate way of making ac¬ 
quaintances,’ said Miss Stanton, beaming upon 
us a smile of sympathy that would have warmed 
the heart of an Esquimaux. 

“‘Oh, no; not inconvenienced in the least,’ 
said McWhite, holding out his fingers for the 
water to drain off. ‘Little incidents like this 
are very common with us,—we always enjoy 
them.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ I added, ‘ we will enjoy the hop more 
than ever for this little bath.’ 

“ ‘ Then you will not give up the hop ? I am 
so glad! You deserve all the pleasure it is 
possible for us to afford you after this dreadful 
accident. Mr. Pell, you must take these gentle¬ 
men right over to my cousin’s, Dr. Pigett’s, 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


71 


quarters, and say he is to take*care of them for 
me. lie will be only too glad to do anything in 
his power to make you comfortable. You must 
promise to come to the hop, now.’ The earnest 
look of entreaty in her big brown eyes would 
have disarmed opposition in a Zulu brave. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ I answered, 4 when we get fixed up a 
bit, we shall be only more pleased than ever to 
carry out our original intentions. I am glad Dr. 
Pigett is your cousin. I have the honor of 
knowing him very well.’ 

44 By the time the launch touched the dock, 
Mr. Pell stood waiting for us to land, and two 
able seamen, with our valises in their hands, 
were in readiness to show us the way to the 
Doctor’s quarters. We bowed to our rescuers 
and followed them, after renewing our assur¬ 
ances that we would appear at the hop-room. 
Even McWhite spoke a trifle less sarcastically, 
and bestowed a second glance upon the owner 
of the dark-brown eyes. 

“ Our reception by the Doctor, who was a 
graduate of the Government Naval Academy; 
the truly courteous manner in which he placed 
his quarters at our disposal, and exerted himself 
to provide all that would add to our comfort 


72 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


and make amends for the mishaps of the day, 
produced an indelible impression in my mind, 
and spoke volumes in praise of the hospitality 
of the officers of the American navy. The 
water had not entered our valises to any seri¬ 
ous extent, so that shortly after nine we made 
our appearance—a vastly improved appearance 
—in evening dress, and were on our way to 
the hop-room. As we entered, our glances 
sought the owner of the brown eyes. Yes, she 
was expecting us; the brown eyes were turned 
towards the door and soon brought their owner 
forward to greet us. It was at this moment, I 
think, that America scored another victory over 
Great Britain in her own waters,—a legal cap¬ 
ture for the brown eyes,—and they have ever 
since held undisputed possession of the prize. 
It is unbecoming my present position, gentle¬ 
men, to enumerate the many reasons that 
existed for the capture of the Briton; but Paget 
has known me long enough to be certain that 
they were excellent; and for the rest, as you 
have already met Lady Moffatt, you must judge 
for yourselves.” 

“ But what did the ebb-tide have to do with 
it?” interrupted Grosvenor. 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


73 


“Without the ebb-tide, my lad, it would 
never have happened. The delay of our boat 
by the tide brought us under the bows of the 
4 San Francisco’ just in time to be upset by the 
launch in which Miss Stanton was crossing to 
Bear Island. As she found it getting late, she 
had decided not to attend the hop, and had 
announced this, much to Mr. Pell’s disappoint¬ 
ment, only a moment before we were struck. 
Then her curiosity to see how we looked with 
the salt water out of our eyes, as well as her 
anxiety to assure herself that we were repaid 
for our accident by being made to enjoy our¬ 
selves, caused her to reverse that decision. Mr. 
Pell, although he doubtless felt himself repaid 
for his labors, was required to introduce us to 
the entire assembly, and to look after us gener¬ 
ally in a manner that was an imposition upon 
the good nature of any white man. That was 
my first ball as the guest of American naval 
officers, and it was one of the memorable events 
of my life. They are truly polite, accomplished, 
hospitable,—a superior class of men; and my 
acquaintance since has not altered the impres¬ 
sions of that evening. But you must excuse 
me now, gentlemen; her ladyship will be look- 
D 7 


74 


THE EBB-TIDE. 


ing for me. I have told you the ebb-tide was 
responsible for many things: among them, the 
yacht 4 White Wings’ returned to England, 
leaving me in San Francisco,—for my health; 
and to-night it has afforded me the pleasure of 
meeting you here. To-morrow at lunch, if you 
will be good enough to remain, Lady Moffatt 
will be glad to entertain you with her version of 
the events of that night, and you will notice 
that, although her name has changed since she 
first met me, the color of her eyes has not; and 
I think you will agree with McWhite, who said 
that evening when he bade me good-night: 

44 4 It’s an ill tide that ebbs nobody good.’ ” 


WHITE LILIES. 


75 












































































































































































































































































WHITE LILIES. 


She was very young, not more than seven¬ 
teen, and exquisitely pretty, in spite of the 
damaging fact that her dress was in the very 
highest height of fashion, and she was the only 
passenger who got on board the “ Mary Powell” 
at West Point. She carried a large hunch of 
fragrant fading white lilies—my favorite flowers 
—in her hand, and perhaps it was this as much 
as her beauty which caused me so particularly 
to notice the girl at first, but when once I had 
looked at her I found it difficult to turn my 
eyes away. 

Around her throat she wore a pair of cadet 
chevrons, brilliant with gold lace, which she 
had arranged to form a very gorgeous collar. 
Her ear-rings were bell-buttons; bell-buttons 
dangled and rattled upon the bangles on her 
slender little wrists, and a number of the same 
shining spheres were skillfully fashioned into a 
scarf-pin. 

“Evidently,” I said to myself, “this little 
7 * 77 


78 


WHITE LILIES. 


maiden has been a favorite at the Point.” 
Presently she spread her fan, ornamented with 
military designs done in brilliant water-colors, 
as well as covered with autographs, and opened 
a novel, between the pages of which I could not 
help seeing that she had secreted a photograph; 
and I smiled at the innocent device, which was 
one I myself had not despised in days gone by. 

I was half ashamed of myself for watching 
her, as she sat so calmly unconscious of my 
stolen glances, hut she was so very lovely, with 
her Titian-yellow hair, big, long-lashed brown 
eyes, and fair skin, pink tinted like a shell; 
and there was a look about her face which 
strongly reminded me of one who had been, 
and still was, very dear to me. Yes, she cer¬ 
tainly was like Clara Avery. Could it be that 
she was the little Lilian—named after me— 
whom I indistinctly remembered as a delicate, 
large-eyed little creature of six, eleven long 
years ago ? 

“ Highly improbable,” I told myself. “ And 
yet, why might it not be ?” Clara’s home was 
in New York, and this pretty maiden must be 
very nearly of Lilian’s age. I grew quite excited 
over my fancy, and finally decided to speak to 


WHITE LILIES. 


79 


the subject of it. At least I had an excellent 
excuse for so doing, and, in any event, I should 
like to know the lovely creature’s name. 

My camp-chair was not far removed from 
hers, and drawing it still nearer, I said, half 
apologetically, “ Pardon me, but is not your 
name Avery ?” 

She looked up with a shy, inquiring gaze, and 
answered, simply, “Yes, madam; my name is 
Avery.” 

I could scarcely believe that my fanciful con¬ 
jecture had proved to he the true one. “ And 
is youi mother Clara Avery? Can it be that 
you are little Lilian ?” 

“Yes; mamma’s name is Clara, and I am 
‘ little Lilian,’ ” she replied, with a charming 
smile and blush. “ Are you a friend of mam¬ 
ma’s?” 

“Yes; she is almost the best friend I have 
left in America,” I returned, eagerly. “How 
strange it seems to meet Clara’s daughter in 
this unexpected fashion! Would you believe 
me if I should tell you that you are named after 
me ? Surely you have heard your mother speak 
of Lilian Peid—Lilian Thornton now,—though, 
of course, you cannot remember me ?” 


80 


WHITE LILIES. 


She was all excitement in a moment. “ Oh, 
she is always telling me of you , 6 Cousin Lilian,’ 
as she has taught me to call you, although you 
are not really my cousin, are you ?” 

“ Only by a certain marriage which made us 
cousins when I was much younger than you; 
but I have always loved your mother as if she 
had been an elder sister. Dear Clara! How 
good she has been to me!” And I gave a sigh 
to the dear old memories. “ You look a great 
deal like her, I think.” 

“ So every one says. But I thought you were 
in Europe, Cousin Lilian. I may call you that 
still, mayn’t I ?” 

“ Yes, indeed,” I responded, warmly. “ W ell, 
I have only just returned, and expected, during 
my stay in Hew York, to walk in upon your 
mother and surprise her, if she had not moved 
away since I last heard from her,—longer ago 
than I like to think of. She is well, I hope ?” 

“ Oh, yes; thanks! And you—I do hope you 
are going to make us a long visit ?” 

“ I have yet to decide where I shall take up a 
permanent abode. Perhaps it may be in Hew 
York; and if so, you will not care for a lengthy 
visitation. You know I am quite alone now, 


WHITE LILIES . 


81 


and very lonely, for my mother and auntie both 
died within two years after my marriage; and 
since my husband’s death, four yea-rs ago, I 
have led a nomadic existence abroad, without 
any home and few real friends. I dreaded to 
return to America and find all so changed, but 
now I am glad I made up my mind to do so. 
And it is so pleasant to have met my little 
namesake in this unexpected way !” 

Then ensued many questions and answers, 
and much friendly talk, so that an hour went by 
and seemed like a few moments. 

“And so you have been to West Point?” I 
remarked, finally, with rather a mischievous 
smile, when I had heard all that she could tell 
me of her home and mother. 

“Yes; I have been there for more than a 
month, staying with Major Eliot’s daughter 
Jennie. It has been simply a- heavenly time!” 
with all the empressement of seventeen. 

“ Do you know, dear, I almost envy you!” I 
exclaimed, with half a sigh. 

“You envy me, you, who are so beautiful, and 
rich, and—and everything ! I think you must be 
joking!” 

“ Ah, no! Am I not twenty-eight years old, 

/ 


82 


WHITE LILIES. 


and you seventeen ? Besides, you have just 
been to West Point, and I cherish most affec¬ 
tionate recollections of that dear old Paradise. 
I was so happy there once! I remember won¬ 
dering when I left it, eleven years ago, whether, 
with all the future might hold in store for me 
of joy or triumph, I should ever know such 
perfect happiness again. I never have. Noth¬ 
ing has been like that, and never will he, for 
then the world and I seemed young together, 
now we have both grown old.” 

Her face paled and saddened a little. “ Won’t 
you tell me about that time ?” she asked. “ You 
don’t know how interested I should he.” 

“ Ah, my little story is not half as interest¬ 
ing, I fancy, as one you might tell if you chose. 
You would not care to listen to it.” 

“ Oh, indeed I should care, for ever so many 
reasons!” 

“You would like to draw comparisons, per¬ 
haps?” I smilingly suggested. But, after all, 
why should I refuse to grant her request? 
Why should I hold my poor story as too sacred 
for even these sympathetic young ears to hear ? 
It had all happened so long ago, and it was in 
nowise different from a thousand other silly 


WHITE LILIES. 


83 


girlish romances, whose owners soon lived them 
down. I ought now to be able to laugh over it 
as freely as the rest of the world would do, and 
yet, while I breathed the dying fragrance of 
those lilies, and looked out wistfully upon the 
beautiful familiar river scenery, somehow I could 
not laugh. 

“ Go and find a glass of water, then, for your 
poor lilies,” I said, “ for I can’t tell a story 
while my favorite flowers lie dying before my 
eyes.” 

When she had done my bidding, I found 
myself compelled to keep the tacit promise, 
repented as soon as made. 

“ I scarcely know where to begin,” I hesi¬ 
tated, “but perhaps it had better be with the 
arrival of an invitation to visit my Uncle and 
Aunt Ferguson, who lived a mile or two below 
West Point. How wild with delight I was over 
that invitation, and how my heart sank propor¬ 
tionately when poor little mamma sadly told me 
she could not possibly afford the money for my 
journey or outfit! My bright visions vanished 
in a moment, like the airiest of bubbles; but, 
though I gave up my anticipated pleasure 
meekly enough, I could not resist writing a 


84 


WHITE LILIES. 


doleful epistle to your mother, who at that time 
was the confidante of all my little troubles. 
Then, just as soon as it could possibly arrive, 
came a note from her, containing a pass she had 
begged for me from her husband’s uncle, who, 
you know, was a very noted railroad magnate in 
those days. Dear Clara! How good it was of 
her! And yet, in the time that came after, I 
sometimes wished that my letter to her had 
never been written. 

“ Well, the arrival of the pass caused a grand 
family consultation regarding 4 ways and means.’ 
Mamma sacrificed her cherished wedding-gown, 
creamy with age, to my modern vandalism that 
I might have a pretty ball-dress, and the veil 
was devoted to the purpose of trimming. Aunt 
Mary laid at my shrine a black grenadine she 
had intended making up for herself; so, with 
two or three pretty muslins, my new outfit was 
complete, and I experienced more pleasure in 
its possession than I ever have since in the most 
elaborate Worth-made costumes. It was the 
day of the graduation hop when I arrived at 
West Point, I remember, and Aunt Ellen Fer¬ 
guson was going. She looked at me in surprise 
when she first saw me,—a tall, slim girl of 


WHITE LILIES. 


85 


seventeen,—exclaiming, ‘ Why, here we have a 
young lady where I expected to see a mere 
child! . I’m afraid I shall have trouble with 
you : you look dangerous. I hope, at all events, 
you are not a flirt ?’ 

“ ‘ We never know what we may he until we 
are tempted, mamma says,’ I replied, demurely; 
and I hut faintly comprehended' when Aunt 
Ellen shook her head, murmuring, ‘ Oh, those 
terrible cadets ! I doubt I shall have my hands 
full.’ 

“I had no ornaments to wear at the hop, 
whither Aunt Ellen proposed to take me; so, 
with her permission, I robbed the garden of 
half its wealth of fragrant lilies, to pin them on 
my dress and in my hair and bosom, and tried 
to stifle my longing for a pearl necklace and 
ear-rings to match. 

“ It was the custom then, just as it is now, I 
suppose, for the ‘ floor managers’ at the hops to 
address strange ladies and bring up cadets to 
introduce to them, and so, though I knew no 
one at first, I had not been in the hop-room half 
an hour before my card was well filled with 
names. It was all so new and wonderful to 
me,—the brilliantly-lighted mess hall, with its 
8 


86 


WHITE LILIES. 


draping of flags of all nations, the striking 
uniforms of officers and cadets, and, above all, 
the glorious music of the band, which alone 
would have sufficed to make me fancy myself in 
Paradise. I forgot my lack, of pearls, the thin¬ 
ness of my silk, the limpness of my ancient 
tulle, and was fain to believe (in spite of former 
impressions to the contrary) that I must indeed 
be the charming and fascinating person those 
gray-coated heroes pretended to think me. But 
pride, you know, is said to precede a fall, and so 
it was with me presently when the conviction 
was disagreeably forced upon me that I was not 
as irresistible as, just for that one evening, I 
would gladly have fancied: there was a cadet 
who refused to be introduced to me! 

“I could not help noticing him, for he was 
handsomer than any one else in the room, 
although he had rather a gloomy or preoccupied 
air, and watched the dancing without ever join¬ 
ing in it. Several times I had chanced to meet 
his eyes, and finally had been moved to ask his 
name of one of my partners, so that when pres¬ 
ently I saw the two speaking together, I fancied 
I could guess the subject of their conversation, 
and was not displeased. By and by Mr. Abbott 


WHITE LILIES. 


87 


—I believe that was my partner’s name—came 
back to me alone, and I immediately put a 
question which, had I been a little older, I 
should have left unsaid: 4 Were you asking that 
cadet, Mr. Hancock, to be introduced to me ?’ 

444 Ye-es,’ he stammered, looking rather un¬ 
comfortable. 

444 And he wouldn’t come ?’ 

44 4 He said he didn’t know how to amuse 
young ladies. He doesn’t often dance, you see, 
or have much to say to any woman who isn’t 
old enough to be his grandmother,’ Mr. Abbott 
proceeded to explain. 4 He’s a good fellow, and 
a fine student, but he cares more for his 44 Math” 
than anything else. We call him 44 Diogenes” 
among ourselves. I shouldn’t have spoken to 
him now, but I thought you might like to meet 
him, for the sake of the contrast, you know, to 
the rest of us fellows.’ 

44 Oddly enough, I was not in the least of¬ 
fended because my acquaintance was not desired 
by the big, handsome cadet who cared for his 
‘Math’ above all other things. I was scarcely 
piqued even, but I was interested and a little 
curious regarding the new species of young man 
to whom ‘Diogenes’ could be an appropriate 


88 


WHITE LILIES. 


nickname. A little later I was resting under 
Aunt Ellen’s wing, and mourning the loss of 
my breast-knot of lilies, which was sadly 4 con¬ 
spicuous by its absence,’ when ‘Diogenes’ ap¬ 
peared with the missing flowers. 

44 4 These are yours, are they not ?’ he ques¬ 
tioned, holding them out to me. 

“ 4 Thanks!’ said I, stretching forth my hand, 
when suddenly he half withdrew his which 
held the lilies. 4 May I keep one ?’ he asked, 
abruptly. 

“ 4 If you like,’ I began, when Aunt Ellen, 
who had been conversing with a friend, turned 
and saw my companion. 4 Oh, Mr. Hancock!’ 
she exclaimed; 4 then you have met my niece ?’ 

44 4 1 have not had the honor,’ he said, rather 
stiffly, and to my embarrassment she immediately 
performed the ceremony of an introduction. I 
was half vexed, half mischievously pleased, for 
had not Mr. Hancock brought this undesired 
acquaintance upon himself? He need not have 
been so scrupulously honest in the matter of 
my lilies if my presence was something to be 
shunned. 

44 It was nearly twelve o’clock, and the 4 ger¬ 
man’ would soon be commencing over at the 


WHITE LILIES. 


89 


academic building, and many people were 
already deserting the mess hall. 

You have no partner for the german?’ he 
asked. 

“‘Oh, nd; I only came to-night, and auntie 
tells me that partners are engaged for this ger¬ 
man weeks before the time.’ 

“ 4 Will you dance it with me, then ? though I 
warn you I am not a good partner.’ 

“ After what Mr. Abbott had told me this 
invitation surprised me so much that I scarcely 
remembered the necessity of answering, but 
rising confusedly I accepted his arm, and we 
went away to the academic building. 

“ Miles Hancock was not like any one I had 
ever seen, or ever have seen since, I think. He 
did not talk to me as most young men think it 
their duty to talk to girls. He told me a few 
quaint stories about the origin' of some figures 
in the german, and then—suggested by those, 
it may be—something of the two years he had 
passed in Germany before coming to West Point. 

“ Sometimes, when it was not our turn to 
dance, we went out and walked in the moon¬ 
light, and then, instead of watching its effect 
upon my upturned face (as I felt morally sure 
8 * 


90 


WHITE LILIES. 


Mr. Abbott would have done), he gravely dis¬ 
coursed about Copernicus and Tycho Brahe, 
until he roused me to an unfeigned interest in 
subjects I thought I had discarded with my 
school-books a year ago. How childish and 
silly I felt in comparison with him! and how I 
resolved to get out my books when I went 
home, and learn to talk on topics he was in¬ 
terested in! 

“ 4 Your lily is faded,’ I said when the german 
had come to an end; 4 you had better throw it 
away.’ 

44 4 Oh, no,’ he returned; 4 1 mean to press it 
and keep it. I should not have asked for it else.’ 

44 4 To remind you of this evening, or to make 
you smile when you think of me —and my igno¬ 
rance V 

44 4 Of neither,’ said he, coolly, quenching my 
incipient vanity. 4 1 asked for it because it re¬ 
minded me of my home. I haven’t seen any 
flowers of that sort for years; they were my 
mother’s favorites.’ 

44 4 1 hope you will not press the poor thing 
between the leaves of your 44 Mathematics,” un¬ 
less you wish to dry it utterly,’ I said, laughing, to 
hide the fact that his last words had touched me. 


WHITE LILIES . 


91 


“ ‘ No; I meant to put it in a nice little white- 
covered Bible my mother gave me. I thought 
it would be more appropriate to the lily—and to 
you.’ 

“ 4 Shall I bring you some more lilies soon 
from my uncle’s garden ?’ I asked, pleased with 
the little compliment, though I had the sense to 
comprehend that he had not intended it as such. 

“ ‘ Thank you ! but do not take that trouble. 
It is not very likely we shall meet again,—soon, 
at all events,—for I seldom attend these hops or 
show myself in society. I am not much of a 
ladies’ man, as you may have divined.’ 

“ 4 But I hate 44 ladies’ men,” ’ I protested; 
4 and as for me, I am only a little girl, not a 
young lady at all. I wanted you to talk more 
to me about the moon some time.’ 

“ He smiled, an odd, pleasant smile. 4 There 
are plenty of fellows who will be but too glad 
to 44 talk to you about the moon,” in a far dif¬ 
ferent fashion from mine, and, you will think, a 
much better one,’ he said. 

44 And then it was time to bid each other 
good-night. 

44 In spite of these rather coldly ungracious 
words, however, I did meet him again, both 


92 


WHITE LILIES. 


soon and often; at least, we saw each* other, but 
he seldom or never sought me. I often found 
him apparently watching me at guard-mount, at 
parade, and at the few hops he attended, at all 
of which places I received more attention than 
was good for me from everybody save one. I 
was piqued, and perhaps a little mortified, but I 
was far too happy in my gay, novel life to care 
just then more than that ‘ little.’ 

“ At last, however, one night at parade, when 
the cadets had been in camp for a week or two, 
he deigned to approach me (for so, half scorn¬ 
fully, half triumphantly, I put it to myself), and 
said, abruptly, ‘Are you fond of music, Miss 
Reid ?’ 

“ When I had returned, ‘ More than of any 
thing else, as I hear you are of mathematics,’ he 
invited me to remain and go to band practice 
with him that evening. There was a particu¬ 
larly fine programme, he said, as if he searched 
for an excuse for his invitation. 

‘“After all, then,’ I exclaimed, mischievously, 
‘ you have not entirely forgotten that I possess 
an existence, and might have a fondness for fine 
music. I quite thought you had forgotten all 
about me.’ 


WHITE LILIES. 


93 


“ ‘ I have been trying to do so/ he answered, 
very quietly , 4 but have decided that it is no use.’ 

“ I was electrified, and made no reply, so he 
continued, ‘ Five minutes ago even I meant not 

to ask you, but—but now- Will you go 

with me V And for the first time in his life, I 
fancy, Miles Hancock was visibly confused. 

“ Well, I went with him,—perhaps to punish 
him, as I said, for trying to forget me,—and 
somehow we seemed to grow so thoroughly 
acquainted that night that afterwards every¬ 
thing could not help but be different between 
us. He began to seek me continually, for I 
spent the greater part of every day at the Point, 
with Aunt Ellen for chaperon, generally at first 
half reluctantly, as if he fought against his in¬ 
clination, but finally gladly, eagerly, as if surren¬ 
dering himself to an influence sweet as it was 
powerful; and if I began to care for him then, I 
had reason to think he cared as well for me. 

****** 

“You have heard of the money my god¬ 
father bequeathed me when I was a young girl, 
have you not? Well, it was during my stay at 
West Point that I received tidings of his death, 
and of the .unexpected contents of his will. I 


94 


WHITE LILIES. 


was too wildly excited over my Cinderella-like 
fortune to be discreetly reticent, and so the news 
of my heiress-ship spread like wildhre among 
the gossips of West Point. 

44 I was quite anxious to hear what Mr. Han¬ 
cock would say and think, but suddenly, with¬ 
out explanation, he began to avoid me again, 
never rudely or abruptly, but nevertheless his 
avoidance was unmistakably certain. I was 
hurt and perplexed, and when it had gone on 
for what seemed to me a very long time, I found 
myself heavy of heart and sad, for reasons I 
dared not try to read. At last we came upon 
each other in the library building, where I had 
been bidden to wait for Aunt Ellen. 

444 Do you hate me lately V I asked, with a 
sort of shy audacity, as for an instant he held 
my hand. 

44 4 Hate you ! most certainly not,’ very gravely. 
4 Is it true, as I have heard, that you have come 
into a fortune, are a great heiress V 

44 4 Yes, indeed; isn’t it like a fairy tale ? But 
what has that to do with my question V 

44 4 Everything to me; it has essentially changed 
everything for me.’ 

44 4 Why V 


WHITE LILIES. 


95 


“ i Because I had meant to ask you to marry 
me.’ 

“ * And now you will not, just because of my 
money V 

“ ‘ No; I will not, I cannot/ he began, but I 
interrupted him, impetuously, scarcely knowing 
what I said. 

“ 4 Then I must ask you to marry me ! Please 
do,—that is, if you really still care enough for 
me to wish to! I shall be so unhappy if you 
don’t V And with tears and agonized blushes I 
laid my hands on his. 

****** 

“When Aunt Ellen came in, ten minutes 
later, I had given him my promise, or he had 
given me his, I scarcely know what to say under 
such confused circumstances, hut, at all events, 
we were engaged. Miles would gladly have 
told her immediately, but I would not have it 
so. She would laugh, and call us over young 
and foolish, I knew; say, perhaps, we had no 
right to engage ourselves so, and that I could 
not bear. It must remain a secret, all our own, 
till I went home again, and then mamma must 
be the first to know. 

“ After that there were two weeks of happi- 


96 


WHITE LILIES. 


ness for us both, happiness far too unalloyed to 
last. One evening there was to be a hop at the 
hotel. Miles and I were speaking of it two 
days before, and he wished me to promise not 
to go, as he didn’t think he should be able to 
be there. He expected to be detailed for the 
observatory that night, and, of course, I was 
enough in love to give the required promise 
willingly. 

“ 4 But then I sha’n’t see you for two whole 
days,’ I objected, 4 as I can’t come up to the 
Point to-morrow, and the day after, if I’m not 
to attend the hop, I suppose Aunt Ellen will say 
it isn’t worth while for me to come at all.’ 

44 4 Well,’ he said , 4 I’m sure of you now, and 
I hope we shall have lots of other days to spend 
together before you go away.’ 

44 But he was mistaken. 

44 Aunt Ellen had not played chaperon for me 
that day, and when I reached home I found her 
with unexpected company, a Mr. Thornton, 
from Hew York, who had come once or twice 
before to the house during my visit. 

44 4 I’ve just been promising Mr. Thornton 
that you will go with him to the hop day after 
to-morrow,’ she informed me; 4 for I have pre- 


WHITE LILIES. 


97 


vailed upon him to stay over with us on pur¬ 
pose/ 

“ ‘ But—hut I’m not going to the hop,’ I 
stammered. 

“ ‘ Not going ! Pray, why is that ?’ 

“ ‘ Because’—hastily framing an excuse which 
at least was not an untruth — 4 I’ve just told Mr. 
Hancock I wouldn’t go; and as he makes out 
my hop cards, I should get very little chance to 
dance if I changed my mind now that he doesn’t 
expect me.’ 

44 4 Oh, no matter for that this one time,’ per¬ 
sisted Aunt Ellen, impatiently. 4 You will en¬ 
joy it well enough, I dare say, and perhaps Mr. 
Thornton may put down his name in the blank 
spaces on your card/ 

44 4 With great pleasure,’ came emphatically 
from Mr. Thornton. 

44 4 Oh, but how it would look to Mr. Hancock 
if I should go now, when I’ve just positively 
announced that I would not be there. He will 
think I did it on purpose to avoid him,’ I pro¬ 
tested, more warmly than prudently. 

44 4 Mr. Hancock will probably not give it a 
thought. At all events, I particularly desire 
you to go, my dear,’ Aunt Ellen said, decidedly. 

e g 9 


98 


WHITE LILIES. 


And she always said ‘ my dear’ ^hen she was 
growing a little angry, even to her husband. 
As for me, I was quite a child in her eyes, and 
no doubt a troublesome one. 

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘then I must write him a 
note of explanation.’ 

“ ‘Write to Miles Hancock! a young man you 
have been slightly acquainted with for two months ! 
I cannot possibly permit it!’ ejaculated Aunt 
Ellen, in horrified accents, which I thought quite 
too exaggerated, while Mr. Thornton became 
absorbed in gazing out of the window. 

“ ‘ I can’t allow my niece’s handwriting to be 
in the possession of any cadet, no matter how 
nice he may seem to be. How can you tell 
what use he might make of it ?’ 

“ This was too ridiculous, I thought; but 
words were vain, and I relapsed into a discreet 
though angry silence, being none the less re¬ 
solved, since I must go to the hop, to write 
Miles an explanation. I fancied I knew him 
well enough to be quite certain of his being 
vexed and misunderstanding me if I did not, 
especially as I was to go with Mr. Thornton, 
who was known at West Point as being wealthy 
and a grand parti . 


WHITE LILIES. 


99 


“ I was quiet all the evening, intent on laying 
my little plot; and very, very early next morn¬ 
ing, stealing down to the deserted library, I 
hastily wrote two letters, one to Miles and one 
to your mother, Clara Avery. The latter was 
to serve as a 4 decoy/ if necessary. 

“ I had finished the first and secreted it in 
my pocket, and had commenced the other, when 
the door opened, and Aunt Ellen peeped in 
suspiciously, her hair still in crimping-pins. 

“ 4 I thought I heard a noise, and fancied it 
was you/ she said. 4 Surely, Lilian, you are not 
writing to that cadet after all I said to you V 

“It seemed to me quite an insult to Miles 
that he should be mentioned as 4 that cadet/ and 
with the courage of anger, though my heart 
throbbed violently, I answered, stoutly, ‘No; 
I’m not writing to any cadet, but to Clara 
Avery.’ 

44 She gave me a long, doubtful look, and, 
slowly turning, left the room. 

44 Never had I felt so utterly at a loss for 
something to say in a letter to Clara. I had no 
reason for writing, and after having set down 
4 Dear Clara’ and the date, I looked at the page 
for a long time in despair, with my inky pen 



100 


WHITE LILIES. 


suspended, ready to dash down any fugitive 
idea which might occur to me, before I could 
think of a thing to say. 

“ Finally, I had not succeeded in completing 
my note, which seemed likely to be a lame 
affair, when Uncle Henry entered. As a rule, 
he was a particularly late riser, and so I knew 
Aunt Ellen must have used cogent arguments 
to induce this early appearance of his. 

“ 4 Lilian,’ he said, very gravely (Uncle Henry 
was always grave, though kind, and he always 
spoke directly to the point), 4 will you tell me to 
whom is that letter ?’ 

444 To Mrs. Avery,’ I replied, ostentatiously 
directing my envelope, and feeling sadly con¬ 
scious of that other in my pocket. But perhaps 
my voice trembled. 

“ 4 And is that the only one you have written?’ 

44 How sick I felt as I finished writing that 
address! For an instant I did not answer, then 
I said, faintly, 4 Yes.’ It was my first false¬ 
hood. 

44 4 You are sure ? Forgive me, Lilian.’ 

44 4 Yes; sure V I cried, miserably. 4 What a— 
what a fuss you and Aunt Ellen are making 
about nothing! My head aches, Uncle Henry, 


WHITE LILIES . 


101 


and I’ll take my letter to the post-office now, for 
the sake of the walk before breakfast.’ 

“He made no comment, and I started off, 
not feeling as if Miles’s letter were absolutely 
safe until I had left it at the Highland Falls 
post-office, with the assurance that it would 
soon be sent off to the Point. 

“ Uncle Henry once in a while indulged in a 
4 constitutional,’ as he called it, before the nine 
o’clock breakfast, and I had been relieved when 
he had not offered to join me in my walk. 
Uow, as I was rapidly returning to the house, I 
met him, and he stopped me, with a hand upon 
my arm. 

44 4 Perhaps you will think me over particular 
in the matter of this letter,’ he said, kindly, 
4 but your aunt has been impressing it upon me 
that it is absolutely my duty to be so, and you 
know how strict she is in her ideas regarding 
propriety. I don’t know but I must agree with 
her; and now, Lilian, it is not too late yet. If 
you’ve put a letter to this cadet in the office, tell 
me, and I can go and get it out for you.’ 

44 I was aghast as well as angry. I had 
fancied my letter safe at last, and now here it 
was in greater peril than ever, perhaps. Again 


102 


WHITE LILIES. 


I protested I had written no such letter, but 
when he announced his intention of proceeding 
to the post-office to inquire for his own mail, I 
offered to accompany him with a fainting heart. 
To my joy he stepped into a grocer’s shop on the 
way, and, framing some hasty excuse, I rushed 
out and sped away to the post-office, where I 
sought the post-master at his little window. 

“ 4 I—did you see me post two letters here a 
few minutes ago ?’ I questioned, desperately, all 
the time feeling heartily angry with myself and 
everybody else, even Miles , because of the posi¬ 
tion in which circumstances and cowardice had 
placed me. 

444 Yes; I saw you, miss,’ was the answer. 

“ 4 Then,’ stammering and blushing furiously, 
4 if—if a gentleman—Mr. Ferguson, I mean,— 
comes here and inquires or asks to see them, 
you—you will not- 5 

44 4 Oh, no/ he interrupted, with an intolerably 
airy patronage and a smile so broad that his 
cigar trembled between his teeth. 4 1 know 
what you mean, of course, miss. Parents and 
guardians often come to us for such things, but 
we know how to keep our mouths shut; our 
memories are awful short sometimes.’ 


WHITE LILIES. 


103 


“ I thanked him with a doubtful grace and 
returned to my uncle feeling utterly, shamefully 
humiliated, yet not wholly repentant. They 
had had no right to take me so to task, I re¬ 
flected, and, after all, I had done no great 
wrong. 

“ But when, after breakfast, the family as¬ 
sembled for prayers and I knelt with the others, 
I was positively frightened, so like a Pariah 
did I feel. How good they all seemed! and 
they never told lies. I had told one, and I had 
no longer a place among people who dared to 
say prayers. Poor little wretch that I was! I 
feel almost sorry for my naughty yet remorseful 
self as I recall my misery. I was very unhappy 
till the night of the hop, and then I grew fright¬ 
ened again. If Miles should be there after all, 
and chance to mention my note to Aunt Ellen, 
what would become of me ? 

“We went early to the Point,—Aunt Ellen, 
Mr. Thornton, and I,—for we had been invited 
to dine with the family of one of the officers, 
and I distinguished myself at table by starting 
when I was spoken to, dropping my fork under 
the table, and even upsetting a glass of water 
into my neighbor’s plate, to such a state of 


104 


WHITE LILIES. 


nervousness had I arrived. Aunt Ellen was 
thoroughly ashamed of me, I know. 

“Well, Miles was at the hop, the night being 
too cloudy for work at the observatory, and in 
a breath with my first salutation I whispered, 
‘ For pity’s sake, don’t mention my note!’ and 
so succeeded finely in puzzling him and rousing 
his curiosity. 

“ It was quite a relief, by and by, to confess 
the sin I had committed for his sake, and to 
pour into his sympathetic ears the history of my 
sufferings and remorse. 

“ 4 Did he think m q frightfully wicked ? Could 
he ever love me again after I had told such a lie ?’ 

“ He managed to pour balm upon my wounds, 
yet said that were he in my place he would tell 
Aunt Ellen all about it now. I would feel 
happier, and it would be better in every way. 
A lie was a bad thing, he said, and one ought to 
do all in one’s power to atone for having told 
one, even if it had seemed excusable at the time. 

You’re not a coward, are you, Lilian?’ he 
asked, when I demurred; and after that I would 
rather have died than not have told Aunt 
Ellen. I did confess the very next day, in the 
presence of Uncle Henry (as an additional 


WHITE LILIES. 


105 


penance), and, alas! she was very angry. She 
spoke of the great responsibility I had been to 
her, with my 4 appearance and unfortunate pas¬ 
sion for flirtation,’ as she emphatically expressed 
her opinion, and my mother so far away. 

44 4 I was frightened as soon as I saw you,’ she 
told me, 4 for I had never realized that I was to 
have a young lady on my hands, and I doubted 
I should have trouble with you. Now it has 
come. You have chosen to deceive us, and 
what you have done once there is no reason to 
believe you may not do again. I don’t dare to 
keep you here any longer, I tell you honestly, 
though I don’t wish to seem unkind, and I must 
write to your mother to send for you directly. 
It is for her sake, as well as for yours and mine, 
that I do it.’ 

44 1 was in despair at this decision, though too 
proud and angry to remonstrate or attempt to 
defend myself, still less mention the fact of my 
engagement as excuse for what I had done. 

44 So I was sent home in disgrace, without 
even the privilege of one sight or word from 
Miles Hancock, for I was not allowed to show 
myself again at the Point, so dangerous a person 
did my aunt now consider me. 


106 


WHITE LILIES. 


“ When mamma had been told of the im¬ 
portant fact of my engagement, and had re¬ 
ceived a long and (in my opinion) beautiful 
epistle from ‘ my cadet/ her heart being much 
softer than Aunt Ellen’s, we were allowed to 
write to each other sometimes; and the next 
June after his graduation he came and spent a 
week in the lovely new home my 4 fortune’ had 
procured for us. 

“ And there, Lilian, I will close my little 
story. That is the way, isn’t it, they do in the 
magazines,—leave the hero and heroine in a 
halo of happiness and indefinitness ? Now you 
have the only romance in the experience of this 
sadly unromantic person, and you must remem¬ 
ber it is your own fault if you have been bored. 
As for me, I have talked myself into the 
dreariest mood imaginable. It always makes 
me a little sad, foolishly so, to recall those old 
days at West Point.” And I sighed involun¬ 
tarily as I bent over Lilian’s flowers. 

“But surely that is not the end, Cousin 
Lilian?” cried the girl. “Won’t you tell me 

what came be- but, oh, no, I ought not to 

ask that.” 

“ Oh, yes; you are at liberty to ask;” I tried 


WHITE LILIES. 


107 


to speak with smiling indifference. “ There 
came a quarrel, and then a separation. When 
by a chance we discovered that it had all arisen 
through a misunderstanding, a mistake, trifling 
enough if it could have been remedied before it 
was too late, I had already engaged myself to 
another man. Of course a promise of marriage, 
once having been made, could not be canceled 
because I had found out that I needn’t have 
broken my engagement with some one else be¬ 
forehand; and so there was the end of it all. 
A mere bagatelle, of course, a little dream of 
one’s first season, you understand, Lilian ? 

“ Ten years ago, and I have never seen or 
scarcely heard of Miles Hancock since ! I dare 
say he is married, and the happy father of half 
a dozen noisy children,” and I laughed. “ How, 
dear, have you not some little confidence to give 
me as reward for my dull narration ?” 

“Just a very little confidence, then, if you 
care to hear, though of course it seems a great 
deal to me” Lilian made blushing answer. “ I am 
engaged to a cadet! And he is such a dear boy, 
Cousin Lilian,— you’ve no idea! Mamma doesn’t 
know yet. I am going to tell her to-night, and 
you must help me if she scolds, won’t you ?” 


108 


WHITE LILIES. 


“ Oh, certainly; you will have an advocate 
in me,” I answered, laughing. “ May I hear 
his name, or is that to be a secret from me as 
yet?” 

‘‘First” (and I thought she seemed oddly 
agitated and nervous, as indeed she had seemed 
during all the progress of my story) “ I will 
show you his picture. I carry it—don’t laugh ! 
—inside this novel. Perhaps—perhaps you may 
have seen him, or some one like him, before, 
you know. Anyway, I hope you’ll think him 
nice-looking.” And timidly yet eagerly she 
laid the photograph in my hand. 

I took it, and I did not speak; I could not. 
The pictured face swam before my eyes, and yet 
another, so strangely resembling it, seemed to 
rise between me and the paper, like the ghost 
of other days. If ever I had told myself it was 
forgotten, I knew now that I had been de¬ 
ceived. 

“Lilian,” I asked, after a pause which seemed 
long to me, and my voice sounded strangely 
in my own ears, “ how did you get this pic¬ 
ture ?” 

“It is the picture of my cadet!” she cried, 
“ and his name is Ned Hancock.” 


WHITE LILIES. 


109 


When I did not speak, she began again, 
“ Haven’t you any questions to ask me, Cousin 
Lilian? Oh, I wish you would ask me just 
one!" growing more and more excited and 
eager. “ Ned’s elder brother, Captain Hancock, 
is named Miles, and they are so much alike, 
even yet, though the captain is a very great deal 
older. They say at the Point that Ned is 
almost precisely like his brother in appearance 
when he used to be a cadet. And Captain Han¬ 
cock isn’t married, and he hasn't half a dozen 
children! He’s home now on sick leave from 
his post in Montana, where he received a dread¬ 
ful wound in a fight with the horrid Indians. 
Ned told me all about it, and he was so brave 
and grand,—you have no idea! He is stopping 
at Cozzens’s Hotel this week, for the sake of 
being with his brother Ned, and we are great 
friends. He is coming to speak to mamma 
about Ned, day after to-morrow, and then— 
then, Cousin Lilian, you and he will meet,—you 
can’t help yourselves! It is too romantic and 
lovely for anything! Now all will be made up 
between you again, and be just as it used to be, 
and I’ll be so happy!” 

“ Hush!” I said, checking the girl’s impetu- 
10 


110 


WHITE LILIES 


ously incoherent outburst in a tone that was 
purposely cold, though I was conscious that my 
cheeks were burning, and my eyes shining with 
a long-unkindled light. “ That little episode is 
a thing entirely of the past. I was very foolish 
to repeat it, I fear, and certainly should not 
have done so could I have dreamed you had any 
connection with the name of Hancock. Captain 
Hancock and I—since that is his title now, you 
say—are as little to each other as if we had 
never met. You must-” 

“ At least,” Lilian broke in again, reproach¬ 
fully, “ poor Captain Hancock has been and is 
faithful to you, whatever you may feel towards 
him, for he has never married; and I have 
heard some of the professors’ wives talking 
gossip about some ‘early disappointment,’ from 
which he has never recovered. I know now 
that that means you. He is splendid, and I do 
hope you won’t ba so horribly cruel as to refuse 
to meet him when he comes to see mamma! If 
you only once meet him, Cousin Lilian, I feel 
sure of all the rest.” 

“ Lily, silly child!” I exclaimed, with a smile 
and a sigh, “ don’t you know that flowers once 
withered never more revive ?” 



WHITE LILIES. 


Ill 


For an instant she was silent. Then, with a 
seeming irrelevance, she cried, her voice trem¬ 
bling ever so little, “ Oh, §ee, Cousin Lilian, my 
lilies that had faded, how bright and beautiful 
they are again!” 

Have flowers prophetic souls ? 







A STRANGE WOUND: 

A STORY OF THE REBELLION 


10* 


113 




















































































. 


r 












A STRANGE WOUND! 

A STORY OF THE REBELLION. 

Some years ago, when stationed in a little 
town in one of our Western States on college 
duty, it was my pleasure and delight to spend 
my leisure hours after drill in the office of a 
local practitioner, a Dr. Brown by name. He 
had been a surgeon and medical director of a 
Western military district during the war, and 
had, moreover, a wide experience in various 
capacities. Possessed of great conversational 
powers, a close observer of men and events, a 
deep thinker and a great reader, his statements 
of what he had witnessed not only were of great 
interest, but remarkable for accuracy and truth 
as well as detail. One day while in his office 
the conversation took a professional turn, and 
he spoke of strange accidents and wounds, and 
ended by giving me the following tale, which 
I here relate in as nearly his words as I can now 
recollect. 

“Well, lieutenant, one of the most remark- 

115 


116 A STRANGE WOUND. 

able wounds I ever came across was connected 
with a young fellow who belonged to this town. 
It was in 1862, and I was then attached as 
surgeon to a regiment of Sanborn’s brigade, 
Hamilton’s division, in Rosecrans’s Army of the 
Mississippi. All through that summer and 
early fall we were pretty scarce of medical 
officers in that army, and I had plenty of work 
to do, I can assure you. In September I was 
appointed an assistant medical director, and had 
my quarters on the staff of General Hamilton. 
During the summer we had not moved around 
much, hut when the fall came, our work com¬ 
menced in earnest. We were at that time in 
Northern Mississippi, and Grant, who com¬ 
manded the Western armies then, had an idea 
of making a forward movement just the mo¬ 
ment he felt himself strong enough. By the 
capture of Forts Donelson and Henry, Island 
No. 10, and the battle of Shiloh, he had cleared 
not only Kentucky hut all of Northern Missis¬ 
sippi of the Confederates, and also all of West¬ 
ern Tennessee. Buc in Eastern Tennessee Bragg 
had a strong force, and threatened to start 
northward and carry the war to the Ohio bor¬ 
der. Now, Grant thought that if Buell could 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


117 


keep Bragg in check he—Grant—could then 
march southward and compel Bragg to either 
retreat precipitately or find himself between 
two large armies, and thus be compelled to fight 
against great odds. I have always thought that 
was a mistake of Grant’s, for at that time if 
he had consolidated his forces he could have 
marched on Vicksburg and Port Royal, which 
were then without intrenchments or much de¬ 
fense, and have captured them with ease, thus 
opening the Mississippi and saving the many 
lives and battles of the year following. At 
least, that is my opinion, hut I am only a doc¬ 
tor, and I suppose my opinion wouldn’t count 
with military men. The forces Grant had in 
September in his front and opposed to him were 
Earl Van Dorn’s army at and around Vicksburg, 
and Sterling Price in his direct front in Central 
Mississippi. The two together numbered about 
thirty-four thousand men, while Grant had 
nearly forty thousand, but spread out from 
Memphis in Tennessee to Bolivar in Mississippi. 
IS'ow, when Bragg found Buell too strong to 
pass, he could not break away from him, as 
Buell would have kept on his heels, and be¬ 
tween Buell and Grant he would have been 


118 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


crushed. So he sent for Van Dorn and Price to 
join him, and in order to keep Grant away he 
ordered them to make a diversion in his favor 
by breaking through Grant’s lines. Well, now, 
lieutenant, I am telling you all this in order that 
you may understand why the battle of Iuka 
was fought, a battle which, to my thinking, was 
one of the most important in the war, though 
the numbers engaged on either side were 
very small. You see Grant had his principal 
depot at Holly Springs, and at Memphis was 
Sherman with sixteen thousand men, while Ord 
and Hurlburt held the rest of the line with only 
about sixteen thousand men. For a while Rose- 
crans had about eighteen thousand, since the 
forces at Bolivar were put in his command. 
After Van Dorn had fortified Vicksburg some¬ 
what he started to make a bretik to the north, 
and his first step was to seize the depot at Holly 
Springs and then appear to march straight for 
Bragg. But he was a sly old fellow, and instead 
of marching at once to join Bragg he and Price 
agreed to form a junction at Iuka, close to 
Grant’s lines, then breaking through his lines, 
to roll Grant back to the Tennessee and north¬ 
ward, and then join Bragg, by which means 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


119 


they would have been able to whip Buell, and 
thus cause a loss to the Union forces of all of 
Tennessee and Kentucky,—an amount of terri¬ 
tory which had taken our troops two years 
nearly to gain. In that case, also, Grant never 
would have been heard of as a great general. 
So you can see the importance of Iuka. If 
it could be held long enough for Grant to get 
up his forces there in strength, then Van Dorn 
and Price would necessarily he compelled to 
retreat, and Bragg would not have his expected 
reinforcements. Grant penetrated Van Dorn’s 
plan, however, but only two days before the 
battle, and he also sent forces to seize and hold 
Iuka, so that it virtually became a race as to who 
should get there first. Van Dorn made it, and 
at once fortified himself strongly, thus hoping 
to beat the forces sent against him in detail. 
He got in September 18, 1862, and the battle 
took place the next day. 

“Well, now that you know pretty well the 
situation of Iuka, I will tell you my story. In 
1859 Jim and Tom Ainsworth, twin brothers, 
lived here. They were a mighty handsome 
couple, both straight, tall, and well formed, and 
having good, manly faces. Jim was dark,— 


120 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


that is, he had dark eyes and hair,—while Tom 
had bine eyes and hair a shade lighter than 
Jim’s. They were both of the same height and 
build, and both were well educated and full of 
good sense. Well, you know the widow living 
over on the corner of Third and Washington 
Streets. She was Mary Carter in those days, 
and as pretty a picture of health, happiness, and 
good looks as the sun looks upon. Of course 
all the young fellows in town were wild after 
her, but it was some time before she showed a 
preference for the Ainsworth boys. However, 
it was a puzzle to know which of the two she 
liked the best. If she went with Jim one day, 
the next she was with Tom, and, notwithstand¬ 
ing this shifting, there did not seem to be the 
slightest jealousy between the two brothers. 
Sometimes all three would come into church 
together, and after service was over she would 
smile as much upon one as the other while she 
walked home with both. I used to watch them 
pretty often, and, somehow or other, I fancied 
it was really Tom she liked the most, though 
I could not tell why, and she must herself have 
been unconscious of it. 

“ Things went on that way through the year, 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


121 


and then came the talk about Breckinridge. 
Lincoln, and Douglas. The brothers were both 
Southern, and of course looked at matters from 
a Southern point of view, and they went about 
making speeches together and helping along 
each other all they could. They were both 
smart lawyers, and having come from Tennes¬ 
see, of course had no abolition blood in them. 
Well, fall came, and Lincoln was elected; and 
although their party was defeated, they seemed 
to stick closer to each other than ever before, and 
Mary Carter had not yet made a choice. People 
used to say she would have to marry them both. 
But one day in December Jim came into my 
office with his handsome face all aglow, and a 
happier and more triumphant light dancing out 
of his bright eyes than I ever saw before. I 
knew something had happened, but I was struck 
all of a heap when he told me that Mary Carter 
had promised to marry him; I was so sure it 
was Tom she liked best, and I couldn’t help 
saying, ‘ But Tom—does he know ?’ ‘ Yes, poor 
Tom ! He says he loved her, hut I am sure he 
never loved her as I do, and he’ll get over it 
soon.’ After he left I sat musing, and thinking 
after all how little we know of a woman’s ways, 
F 11 


122 A STRANGE WOUND. 

when who should come in but Tom. His face 
was downcast and sad, but he tried to cheer up, 
and when I spoke to him about the matter he 
said, ‘Yes, I am glad Jim has her. I thought 
she liked me best, but you see I was mistaken, 
and I would rather he had her than any one 
else/ I saw he was hit hard, hut was trying to 
be a man, and a generous one, about it, and 
somehow I couldn’t help but think there was a 
mistake about it all. 

“ Well, for the rest of that winter times were 
pretty active and full for me in this little town, 
for there were a good many people here who 
afterwards became red-hot Copper-heads, and 
feeling ran pretty high on all sides. Still, 
though Mary and the boys were of different 
political ways of thinking, they all got along 
finely, and nothing seemed to mar their happi¬ 
ness, and the time was set in spring for Jim’s 
marriage. 

“ One afternoon late in March the young 
people of the town to the number of a dozen 
started down to Elliot’s pond for the last skate 
of the season. I could not go then, but prom¬ 
ised to join them in the evening, as it would 
be moonlight, and they would, besides, light 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


123 


bonfires on the ice near shore. They were to 
stay out late. It had been pretty warm during 
the day and the ice had softened a good deal, 
but towards nightfall it grew cold and froze up 
tight again. I remember the gloriously beauti¬ 
ful night as though it were yesterday. The 
moon at its full, the snow—what was left of it— 
crisp and sparkling under feet, and the sheet of 
ice glimmering on the pond like a setting of 
glass. 

“ As I sauntered down about eight o’clock 
towards the bridge at the upper end of the pond 
I heard several screams and shouts for help near 
by. I rushed down, and there struggling to get 
up through the ice was Tom Ainsworth, while 
a rod or two off was Mary Carter entirely help¬ 
less. It took me but a moment to break a 
board off the fence near by and soon have the 
fellow out, and as he crawled up the bank Mary 
followed him, very pale and trembling with 
emotion, and I heard her say something about 
her darling and that kind of stuff, and the next 
moment they were kissing each other for all 
they were worth. I was pretty much astonished, 
knowing she was engaged to Jim. I stopped 
that scene by hurrying him oft* to change his 


124 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


clothes,—I hunted up Jim and put Mary in his 
charge, and then left without joining the skating 
party, who were all down at the lower end of 
the pond a mile away. 

“You see I wasn’t mistaken after all,—she 
liked Tom best; and when she saw him, as she 
thought, drowning, it came all of a sudden to 
her. In a few days it all came out. Tom was 
willing to do the honorable thing and go away, 
but Mary took the matter in her own hands, 
telling Jim how she felt, and that she never 
could marry him,—Jim. 

“ A week after the news of Sumter came to 
us, and I’ll never forget Tom’s anguish as he 
came to my room to tell me the whole story. It 
seems that what Mary told Jim had changed his 
entire nature. He cursed both Tom and Mary, 
told them he would be a living thorn in their 
sides, threatened all sorts of things, and finally 
ended by leaving town and going South to join 
the Confederate army. You cannot imagine his 
rage unless you knew his character, as I was just 
beginning to learn it, and he was simply un¬ 
shakable once his mind was made up; and this 
point you must remember because of the sequel. 

“Well, those two boys separated never to 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


125 


meet again till on the battle-field of Inka, and 
then under such strange conditions as war alone 
can bring out. Tom enlisted and joined an 
Ohio battery, but before going to the front he 
was married to Mary. I soon joined the army 
as surgeon, and went through the fighting at 
Donelson, Henry, Shiloh, the marching and 
work during the summer of 1862, and finally 
found myself, as I have told you, at Iuka. 

“ And now to go back to that battle-field where 
the two brothers and myself met again. When 
Grant had learned of Price’s attempt on Iuka, 
he ordered Rosecrans with his two divisions of 
Hamilton and Stanley to advance on the town 
by the roads to the west and south of the town, 
while Ord with nine thousand men was to ad¬ 
vance on the north. As Rosy had in his two 
divisions about nine thousand more, if the whole 
eighteen thousand men could all get there at 
the same time they could easily hold the place 
against Van Dorn and Price together till Grant 
had brought up his entire force, if need be. 

“ Iuka is a beautiful village on the hills, and 
to its south just outside the town was the tri¬ 
angular plateau on which the battle took place. 
The base of this triangle was north towards the 
n* 


126 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


town, and the point towards the south. The 
base was about a mile long, but the point lopped 
off was about a quarter of a mile wide only. 
Price had fully fourteen thousand men there on 
the 18th, and he at once caused them to throw 
up intrenchments on the plateau along the base. 
Behind them were thick woods, and their posi¬ 
tion was about as strong as it well could be. 
Rosecrans did not divide his forces as he was 
ordered to do, and thus approach by two roads, 
bringing all his men at once on the field, but 
scattered them on one road, with Hamilton’s 
division in advance. The skirmishers of this 
division struck the Confederate pickets about 
four o’clock on the afternoon of the next day, 
the 19th, and immediately as fierce a little fight 
took place as occurred during the entire war. 
In fact, it is given as a matter of record that no 
fight had so great a percentage of killed and 
wounded, for the numbers engaged, as did the 
battery in Hamilton’s division. Look at it, lieu¬ 
tenant, yourself, and you will see as I do that it 
was one of the most important battles of the war. 
Ord was far away and did not come up till the 
next day, when the fight was over; Grant knew 
nothing of the battle till late that night; while 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


127 


Rosy came on the battle-field but a moment, and 
then, not thinking it would be much, went to 
the rear to hurry up Stanley’s troops. So Ham¬ 
ilton’s division had to fight the battle alone with 
but four thousand five hundred men. All de¬ 
pended on them, and to Hamilton alone must 
belong the entire credit of the victory. It was 
simply a question of holding his place till night 
should put an end to the battle, for he knew 
that if he could do that, then by morning light 
there would be more than enough troops to take 
care of all the Johnnies. If he could not hold 
his ground, then Price would strike Stanley, 
overthrow him, turn and beat Ord, and thus 
destroy Grant’s army by detail, and all won so 
far during the war by the Union troops would 
be lost. Then, making the junction with Van 
Dorn, the Confederates could have driven Buell 
over the Ohio and destroyed Grant. So it all 
depended on Hamilton and his division, and 
that officer fully realized it, and he fought his 
men as few officers know how,—always in the 
front, just when and wherever needed, by his 
personal example inspiring his men to hold their 
ground. His horse was killed under him, his 
clothes perforated with bullets, and every officer 


128 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


on his staff and body-guard but two either killed 
or wounded. But be held bis ground for the 
three hours of light remaining, and at dark, un¬ 
able to overcome him, the Confederates with¬ 
drew, knowing that the next morning Ord and 
Bosecrans with the rest of the troops would 
be up. 

“ It was a bloody battle, for we lost over two 
hundred and seventy killed and nearly six hun¬ 
dred wounded out of the four thousand five hun¬ 
dred men engaged, while the rebs lost almost 
double that out of fourteen thousand men en¬ 
gaged. The key-point of the battle was the 
ground held by the Ohio battery, in which Tom 
Ainsworth was now a sergeant. It played the 
very devil among the rebs, and they determined 
to have it. So twice they charged it, but both 
times were driven off. Again they formed 
columns of attack to storm it, and this time 
they came on so there was no stopping them. 
The battery did splendid work just then. The 
guns seemed alive, so rapidly did they spit out 
their showers of grape and canister that tore 
great lanes through the approaching masses. I 
happened to be near the battery at that time and 
saw Tom dismounted, himself aiming and firing 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


129 


his gun; and, looking over to the rebs, who 
should be leading the foremost company of at¬ 
tack but his brother Jim ! The very demon was 
in Jim’s eyes as he recognized Tom, and his face 
lighted up with a terrible expression of hate, and 
he began, even in that noise and turmoil, to 
curse him, when his voice was drowned in an 
explosion. Tom had pulled his lanyard, the last 
shot fired by the battery, and a shower of grape 
went right at Jim’s company, which laid out Jim 
and half his men. But notwithstanding, the 
battery was taken, but soon lost, again taken, 
and at last abandoned to our men at night-fall. 

“ Well, that is all about the fight. Hamilton, 
I think, is the man to whom all the credit is due, 
as Bosecrans was nowhere about. That night 
the rebs left in such a hurry that we had to bury 
their dead and take care of their wounded. I 
had my hands full, for I was short of assistants. 
I had ordered a house in town seized and turned 
into a hospital. It had belonged to a Confeder¬ 
ate general officer, and was one of the largest 
and finest houses in the village, and surrounded 
by a beautiful shaded lawn. When the house 
was filled with wounded, and there were still 
many more coming, I directed a number to be 


130 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


placed outside on the lawn under the shade of 
trees. As there they had plenty of fresh air, 
not cold at that time of the year, they were 
really as comfortable as in the house. 

“ Towards evening of the second day after the 
battle I got my first chance for a little rest, and, 
taking my pipe and a camp-stool, I went out on 
the lawn to have a quiet smoke. I sat down as 
far from the groups of wounded as I well could, 
though they were so many that was not saying 
much. At my feet a little way from me was the 
apparently lifeless body of a Confederate who 
had been brought in severely wounded, but had 
died, as was supposed, before the surgeons could 
get around to him, and the burial-parties were 
still busy with our own men. Part of his skull 
had been torn off by a piece of grape-shot or a 
shell, and the brain or part of it was protruding 
in a bulbous balloon-shaped mass, confined, it 
seemed, by a thin tissue. Although covered 
with blood and dirt, there was something about 
him that struck my attention, and, bending over 
him, I discovered it was poor Jim Ainsworth. 
At first I was glad that he was done for, for I 
knew he must have been instantly killed, and 
Tom and his wife could henceforth live in peace. 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


131 


But even while looking at him, it seemed to me 
that there was the very slightest respiration, and 
to my surprise I found on examination that there 
was. 4 Impossible/ I said to myself, and I knelt 
down to watch the closer. A man with the top 
of his head blown off, the brain protruding, left 
in the open air for forty-eight hours without at¬ 
tention,—why, such a thing was never heard of. 
But my senses to the contrary notwithstanding, 
this man was actually still alive. I took out my 
watch and counted the respirations, and then set 
about to help him what little I could, for I felt 
certain he would die very soon. So, as death 
was certain, I took from my pocket-case of in¬ 
struments a small sharp knife and sliced off the 
protruding part of the brain, and then plastered 
the skin over the hole in the skull as well as I 
could. But he still continued to live even after 
that, and so I injected into him stimulants; and 
to my great astonishment the number of respira¬ 
tions soon increased and seemed stronger. 

“ Here was a case to delight any professional 
man, and perhaps I might be able to keep life in 
him for a long enough time for his people to 
come to him. I sent for Tom, and he came the 
next day. To my unbounded delight, after set- 


132 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


ting np a tent over the patient and injecting 
nourishment into him, he seemed to grow 
stronger, and the idea occurred to me that he 
might live. From that time the attention of all 
the surgeons was placed on Jim, and with every 
care and Tom as a nurse, to make a long story 
short, he did pull through, though it took some 
months to do it. Tom could only stay for two 
weeks, hut he knew Jim would live before the 
end of his furlough. 

“ I went back to Memphis that fall, and had 
Jim brought there and put under my especial 
care in one of our hospitals. Tom joined his 
battery, and it was not long ere I heard of his 
promotion. Poor fellow, he was killed at Vicks¬ 
burg the next year, and Mary was left a widow 
with one little child. 

“Now for the curious part of the story. I 
thought, of course, that as Jim recovered he 
would at least remain an idiot for the rest of his 
life, and certainly would remember no one nor 
any of his past life. Not much. He not only 
knew me, hut his mind seemed as bright and 
clear as formerly, except on one point alone. 
He asked after Tom and Mary and the old ac¬ 
quaintances up here; he talked of the war, of 


A STRANGE WOUND . 133 

old times; lie cursed the Union cause till I 
ordered him to be quiet while in a Union hospi¬ 
tal and living at the expense of the Government 
and men who had saved his life. But in all his 
talk of Tom and Mary there was never the 
slightest malice or bitterness, or reference to the 
old feud and trouble. At first I thought he 
wished to avoid the subject, but I soon became 
convinced it was actually not in his head, and 
therefore, speaking of it myself to him, I be¬ 
came convinced it was all a blank to him. In 
other words, what had been the most exciting 
topic of his life was now a perfect blank. If 
you ask me how I account for it, I tell you I 
cannot. Men have often lived days, even years, 
with bullets and pieces of metal in their brains, 
but I never heard of a case where a man lived 
with part of his brain cut or blown away. But 
he did, and whether or not that part of the brain 
that I sliced off contained the memory of his 
love and hate for Mary and Tom is a mystery to 
me. In every other respect he was himself, and 
the next spring, when he was exchanged with a 
number of prisoners, he went off cursing the 
Union cause and with no thanks for the men 
who had saved him, but with loving messages 
12 


134 


A STRANGE WOUND. 


for Tom and Mary. He never saw Tom, but 
was killed towards the close of the war in a 
little skirmish by a bullet, this time in the brain 
that was left him. He had then attained the 
rank of colonel. 

“Yes, lieutenant, I’ve seen many strange 
wounds, but, take it all in all, that one reached 
the top notch of them all. I’ve often wished he 
might have lived, as then he might have taken 
poor Tom’s place, though that is doubtful, as 
Mary Ainsworth has had many offers since then, 
but has always remained faithful to Tom’s mem¬ 
ory. If this was a story from a novel, and not 
a true tale, he would have lived and married 
Mary.” 




THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 


135 






THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 


“Four cards, Doc? You are playing rather 
a reckless game to-night. Better pull out and 
lose a little than risk all you’ve got on a single 
card. Nearly a thousand in that pot, though,— 
don’t blame you much for staying. Lord, you’ve 
got a nerve!” 

As the cards fell, Paul Durmier turned the 
corners up stealthily, sheltering them with his 
hand from the eyes of the other players. A 
king—another—an ace—a king. When a man’s' 
last dollar is in the banker’s pocket, and his last 
chip in the jack-pot, such a draw is providential. 
The hand stood three kings and two aces. He 
was too skillful a gambler to allow the fire of 
joy which had sprung up in his heart to warm 
the lines of his countenance. 

“ Steady, gentlemen,” he said, quietly; “ I 
think we’ll fatten that a little before proceeding. 
There’s my check for five hundred dollars. No 
doubt you’ll all come right in.” Then, softly to 
himself, he added, “ I don’t bet with Government 
12 * 137 


138 the STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 

money except on a sure thing. When a king 
full is not good, I’ll go bankrupt.” 

There was a stir among the players, and some 
one grumbled about “ bluffing.” Four of them 
laid down their hands, shook their heads, and 
looked at one another. A gentleman in black, 
sitting opposite, turned his cards cautiously, 
faced them on the table, drew forth a check¬ 
book and wrote. His heavy brows covered the 
twinkle in his little beady eyes, and a furtive 
smile played at the corners of his mouth under 
the seclusion of his waxed moustache. 

“ I’ll see that five and raise it five, Dr. Dur- 
mier,” he said, coldly. “ The gentlemen know 
that my check on the Bank of California is 
worth what it is written for.” 

Four deep breaths issued from the lungs of 
the vanquished players. They tipped back their 
chairs and looked at one another aghast, as if 
they had just seen a man fall from the roof of a 
building. Such wagers were not ordinarily laid 
in the quiet rooms of the Bavarian Club. It was 
against the rules; it was contrary to precedent. 
They watched the Doctor write the duplicate 
of his former check,—five hundred dollars on 
the Pacific National. The issue was reached. 


THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 139 

“Anything to please yon, Mr. Jerome. I’ll 
risk that to look at your hand.” The players 
bent forward eagerly. The gentleman with the 
waxed moustache turned his cards carefully and 
spread them out in plain view. 

Four queens and an ace ! 

Dr. Durmier rose to his feet, leaned upon the 
table, and stared at them wildly. There was no 
doubt. He had gambled away a thousand dollars 
of the public funds. 

It was a climax that others had reached before, 
but never so quickly. It usually takes months 
to pile up a deficit of a thousand dollars. He 
had accomplished the feat in less than ten min¬ 
utes,—surely a damnable distinction. Reeling 
through the open door, he staggered down the 
stairway to the coat-room, stubbornly striving to 
appear indifferent. Some one led him to the bar 
and placed a glass of whisky in his hand. 

“Drink that, old man; you need a bracer,” 
urged the Samaritan. 

He pushed it nervously away. “No, no; I 
am only tired of playing. The boat leaves in 
half an hour,—good-by!” Rushing down the 
stairway, he pushed open the heavy doors fiercely 
and disappeared. 


140 THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 

Half an hour later, just as the whistle of the 
little steamer was blowing for the midnight trip 
around the harbor, he staggered down the gang¬ 
plank. 

****** 

Later still he stood behind the granite battle¬ 
ment that crowns the citadel of Alcatraz, and 
looked out over the dark still waters of the bay. 
The footsteps of the sentinels were stifled in the 
stillness of the night; the last belated tug had 
sought the wharf; the last glimmering light of 
the city had faded in the mist that overhung 
the lower bay. The strong rays from Alcatraz 
light-house, sweeping out through the Golden 
Gate, mingled with the darting flashes from Fort 
Point and Bonita, and hurried on to warn the 
sleepy midnight watch of the narrowing, cliff- 
bound straits. Xature slept, and softly breathed 
amid the monotonous rushes of the surf against 
the feet of the rocks. 

Far down below him the lighter objects of the 
Island peered upward like spectres out of the 
darkness,—the winding road descending to the 
dock, the stone tennis court, the white walls of 
the light-house, the bronze figures of the field- 
guns. By a side glance he could detect the out- 


THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 141 

lines of the flower-beds, with the gravel walks 
between, and their heavy border of solid shot. 
He could see the bells of the calla lilies, the 
^voluptuous velvet of the Jacque roses, and the 
hanging jewels of the century plant rising in 
the centre of the garden. 

Never before, even in the summer twilight, 
when every object in nature forces itself on the 
eye more vividly than the central figure in a 
painting,—never before had the homely images 
of the Rock impressed themselves so sharply 
upon his mind. His eye flitted restlessly from one 
object to another, seeking one whose diffidence 
forbade its intrusion on his self-sought solitude. 

There was the little adjutant’s office perching 
like a martin’s nest on the edge of the cliff, with 
the tall light-house standing over it like an Arab 
sentinel clad in white. Lower down the wind¬ 
ing road, like a trio of mastitis sleeping with 
one eye open, reposed the commanding officer’s 
quarters, with its two flanking companions, the 
captains’ quarters. Still lower, on the first ter¬ 
race, rose the great gray hospital; and below it 
the rambling masses of the prison buildings 
were lost in the vague shadows that encircled 
the water’s edge. 


142 THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 

The peace that dwelt upon the face of slum¬ 
bering nature contrasted painfully with the tem¬ 
pest of emotions that swelled the heart of Paul 
Durmier. Anguish, regret, unspeakable dread, 
lashed the rock of reason like angry waters. In 
the sparkling dome above him seemed to swing 
the arms of a great balance—to be or not to 
be. Here in the open night might Fate cast the 
final atom which would launch him forward to 
the unexplored beyond. 

Such heart strains and such perplexity could 
not be borne long. There was a pain at his 
heart. Shadowy images were floating before 
his eyes, and a dullness filled his brain and 
seemed to crush his senses. Other men had 
done this thing, and naught could spare them. 
They fled to other countries, dishonored, ruined. 
It would be better to die than endure dishonor. 
The Government trusts no one, yet it crushes 
whom it cannot trust. The thought turned his 
brain to fire. 

Then the dear wife—the little boy. They must 
not know; they could never bear his guilt. 
When life is dishonor, death is—but reason 
stops at the bounds of life. Ho one can tell of 
the life whose birth is death. The pain that 


THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 143 

galls eternal dissolution would be rest compared 
with the agony of living shame. The dread of 
the hereafter is not more terrible than the dread 
of existence cursed by the scorn of men. 

But there was hope. If by any possibility 
the soul should not be immortal, the end of all 
things is in death, Life and honor might be 
made to terminate in the same breath. Immor¬ 
tality might be only a fiction—a mere philoso¬ 
pher’s fancy. There was hope in the thought. 

He turned and straightened, questioning the 
horizon with his sharp eyes. Only the dark¬ 
ness answered. Shapeless masses of shadow 
slumbered under the dark outline of Tamalpais. 
The demon eyes of the Golden Gate gleamed 
with a melancholy radiance. Nature turned 
her face from the guilt that blackened his 
soul. 

With noiseless steps he returned along the 
plank walk of the sentry’s gallery, passing down 
the iron stairway and through the western bar¬ 
bican. Choosing the stone pavement, so that 
his footsteps would not grate upon the gravel, 
he stole silently down towards his office. There 
were some minor official matters that would 
need attention. As he paused at the head of 


144 THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 

the stone stairway which descended to the first 
terrace, he glanced upward and saw the portly 
light-house keeper trimming the lamps in the 
lens gallery. It was the end of the midnight 
watch. He crept on to the office and turned up 
the lamp at his desk. The attendant sleeping 
in the adjoining room would not wake before 
reveille for anything less than an earthquake. 
Rapidly he turned over his papers, balanced his 
accounts, signed checks for the cash in bank, 
and closed the hooks. When all was complete 
he gathered them together and fastened them 
with a rubber hand. That closed his business 
with the Government, his erstwhile friend, his 
present enemy. 

Dipping his pen, he again wrote upon a slip 
of paper, “ Take care of little Walley,” and 
pinned a check to it. Mechanically his hand 
began to trace characters upon the tablet before 
him. “ To die is the end of all. It blots out 
existence. The elements of life return to earth. 
Death is the end of growth—it is the end of 
life—there is nothing more.” 

The sentinel’s cry at the prison bridge warned 
him of the passing hours. Already it was 
morning. He arranged the papers on the table, 


THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ . 145 

threw the scribblings into the waste-basket, and 
turned down the lamp. The glow of morn was 
rising over Mount Diablo. He ascended the 
carriage road and climbed the stone stair¬ 
way. 

Entering the door of the bastion over which 
the flag waves, in the first room he came upon 
his study desk, and on it the scattered manu¬ 
script of his book. How long, how earnestly, 
he had labored for its completion, trying to stifle 
the gaming passion under the strain of mental 
effort! He had worked until his head was 
filled with pains, and fiery images floated before 
his eyes. Thank God, now that it was finished 
it was a work to be proud of. He sat down, 
and on the first page of the manuscript wrote, 
“ This is for Walley.” 

There was light enough now to render objects 
in the room visible, so he turned out the lamp. 
Up-stairs his wife might he awake. In order 
that he might not disturb her, he removed his 
shoes. Every dainty object in the room made 
him think tenderly of her,—the silken cigar- 
case, the embroidered slipper-holder, the pic¬ 
tures hanging upon the wall. Poor little woman, 
how unworthy he felt now of her pure love. 
ok 13 


146 the STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 

The evil passion which had blighted his life 
showed only more blackly by contrast with her 
wifely devotion. 

It was time to arouse: the morning was fast 
breaking—in the basement the Chinese servant 
was kindling the fires. 

His hunting-coat hung in the closet. Hesi¬ 
tatingly, cautiously, he drew from the pocket a 
loaded shell. Would he take another? Ho; 
the thought was cruel. But death is the end of 
all, and to die in youth and happiness is better 
than to live and drink the bitter cup of dis¬ 
honored widowhood. He took another shell, 
opened the breech of the gun, and inserted it in 
the barrel. Farewell home and the happy days 
and the friends that come and go. Farewell 
life that is not so lovely, after all. 

He threw off his coat and vest and with cat¬ 
like tread ascended the stairs. In the first room 
was the baby sleeping in his crib. Poor little 
fellow! He would never know, and he would 
not be happier if he did. He bent and kissed 
the curly brow. The door of his wife’s room 
stood ajar. He entered and closed it softly. 
She lay there smiling in her sleep, her arms 
above her head, the light of the morning sun 


THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 147 

wreathing her in its warm embrace. How pure, 
how womanly she looked! Oh, what cruel fate 
should doom a holy life to end so rudely! He 
threw back the covering. She did not move. 
The abdomen was sudden, fatal, and accessible. 
He reached over the foot-board and placed the 
muzzle of the gun within an inch of her cloth¬ 
ing. Would not the officer in the adjoining 
room hear the report ? No : he had passed the 
night at the Presidio. He pulled the trigger. 
Only a tremor passed over the slender form. 
The peaceful smile was fixed immovably. The 
room was filling with smoke, for the sheets had 
caught fire from the flame of the discharge. 
Reaching over, with his hands he crushed the 
fire from the blazing cloth. How fortunate it is 
that instant death prevents the flow of blood! 

Now his turn had come, and he welcomed 
it. He drew forth the empty shell, inserted 
the second charge, and cocked the hammer. 
Which was the easiest way? How would he 
manage ? Easily enough. He inclined the 
muzzle towards him and pressed his body 
against it. Then balancing himself upon one 
foot he reached forward with the toe of the 
other and touched trigger. A report—a 


148 THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 

cloud of smoke—a heavy fall—and the shadow 
of a great doubt was made a lucid certainty. 

Ah Wong was waiting in the basement below 
in great desperation. The breakfast would keep 
no longer. Surely his master and mistress had 
been keeping late hours. They did not usually 
slumber until ten o’clock. He would steal softly 
up the stairway and see if they were yet awake. 
Perhaps they were dressing,—he would not show 
impatience by calling them. On the way he met 
the fat light-house keeper standing in the open 
doorway holding a basket. 

“ How do! What you catchee ?” asked Wong 
in his usual monotone. 

“ Some eggs for your mistress. What! Hot 
up yet?” 

“ Ho, cap. Me call ’em now.” 

The light-keeper waddled back to the light¬ 
house, and Wong continued his ascent. He 
opened the door of the baby’s room and peered 
in cautiously. Walley was crowing and kicking 
his heels in the air. Wong stole over to the 
crib and tickled him. 

“ What’s mattah? You no get hungry yet?” 
he asked. 

He rapped at the door of the adjoining room. 


THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 149 

No answer. He rapped again quite loud. 
Were they ill? Perhaps they had remained in 
the city the night before. He turned the knob 
and softly pushed the door ajar. What a queer 
smell! He poked his little shaven head through, 
and started back as if struck by an unseen hand. 

Down the stairs he flew, leaving his wooden 
shoes tumbling along behind him; then running 
barefooted into the adjoining quarters he be¬ 
sought a lieutenant in terror-stricken tones to 
come quickly. 

“ Plenty devils,—him very sick on floor !” he 
cried, pointing upward. 

Other officers joined the lieutenant, and to¬ 
gether they ascended the stairs. An odor of 
burned powder pervaded the air. They pushed 
open the door and saw—that the army would 
have a promotion and a double funeral. Both 
bodies were cold and stiff. 

On the floor lay the young surgeon, the blood 
slowly oozing from an ugly, blackened wound. 
At his feet the double-barreled shot-gun, falling, 
had jarred open at the breech. An empty shell 
was in the gun, another on the floor. On the 
bed lay the white form of the girl wife, her arms 
above her head, resting on the dark masses of 
13 * 


150 THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 

her hair. It was as if she slept and was smiling 
in her sleep. They threw sheets over the bodies 
and drew painfully away. Before any friendly 
hand could interpose, the civil law relating to 
sudden death must be complied with. 

Sorrow came and dwelt upon the summit of 
the Rock. The wise coroners appeared, and, 
shaking their heads, said, solemnly, “ Murder 
and suicide during an attack of temporary in¬ 
sanity.” Insanity has always played second to 
murder. 

When friends came to lay their last offering 
of flowers, they found the two lying side by side 
in the little parlor under the flag. Choking 
down a sob, they looked into the white faces 
and said, “ Who would have thought—so young 
—poor things.” 

They made a single grave under the cypress- 
trees in the great cemetery back of the Presidio, 
and there one sunny morning the little steamer 
bore them, still lying side by side, on its deck. 
There was a procession that followed slowly up 
the hill, there were many mourners, there were 
prayers that were thoughtful and sincere, and 
tears fell to the earth that day which were tender 
and full of love. The words of the minister 


THE STORY OF ALCATRAZ. 151 

were comforting, for no one knew but the coro¬ 
ner was right, and no one thought of the deadly 
purpose which commits a crime. 

The dwellers on the Rock to-day show you a 
vacant bastion that was long since abandoned to 
the bats and evil spirits. Some say that at mid¬ 
night you can see lights flitting past the windows. 
But only one will offer to tell you the story of 
the bloody deed committed there, and that is the 
portly light-house keeper. He dwells with pride 
upon each detail, and claims the honor of being 
first to view the dead, and to convey the news 
of the fearful event to the daily newspapers. 
Yet even he, when he reads this narrative, may 
learn that coroners can err, and insanity be not 
always connected with murder. 







THE OTHER FELLOW. 


153 






























































































































































































THE OTHER FELLOW. 


Our nearest neighbor was Mr. John Deve- 
reux, of Coramballa Station, seventy-eight miles 
away,—tolerably close as things went in the 
Queensland “back blocks” in those days. He 
took up a block of country next to my brothers 
in the latter part of ’85 and stocked it with sheep. 
Shortly after his arrival, I rode over from We- 
aldiwindi—my brothers’ station—to pay my re¬ 
spects. I found a tall, bronzed, bearded man, 
apparently about thirty-two years of age, who 
greeted me with perfect politeness, yet with such 
chilling reserve that the prospect of a future 
close acquaintance appeared rather remote. 

Nothing daunted by this reception, I paid 
several visits to Coramballa during the next few 
months. I was always received with that hos¬ 
pitality which is a canon of bush etiquette, still, 
I fancied that Devereux, in his heart, wished I 
would stay away. 

You meet all kinds of queer characters in the 
bush. There being no public opinion to con- 

155 


156 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


sider, the mask of conventionality is often cast 
aside and hidden traits in a man’s character be¬ 
come his marked characteristics. But a neigh¬ 
bor is a neighbor even though he be surly as a 
grizzly bear; in fact, you are glad to have one 
of any kind in the “ back blocks.” So, not in 
the least deterred by the continued frigidity 
with which my friendly advances were met, I 
made my visits more frequent in the hope of 
some day inducing my surly neighbor to “ come 
out of his shell.” The opinion I formed of 
Devereux was that this gloomy reserve was not 
his natural bent, but was simply a misanthropic 
humor engendered by some overwhelming dis¬ 
appointment in earlier life. I felt sure that be¬ 
neath his distant manner and semi-morose dis¬ 
position there lay a warm and generous nature. 
In the end my perseverance was rewarded by a 
measure of success. While Devereux never at 
any time manifested any warmth in his greet¬ 
ings, he so far relaxed from his former distant 
bearing as to accord me the ghost of a welcom¬ 
ing smile when he shook hands. I looked upon 
this as proof positive of the correctness of my 
theory, and accepted it as an indication that my 
visits were no longer deemed unwelcome. 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


157 


I had no financial interest—I am sorry to say 
—in my brothers’ property, but, Micawber-like, 
was simply waiting there “for something to 
turn up.” So, having no call upon my time, I 
was enabled to spend more of my leisure at 
Coramballa than at Wealdiwindi. 

I am bound to confess that I felt not a little 
curiosity in regard to the past life of my taciturn 
friend. He, however, rarely spoke of it, and 
then only in such a casual way as to afford 
no foundation for anything but mere conjec¬ 
ture. 

I learned to like Devereux very much, and 
began to hope that the sentiment was mutual, 
as indeed it proved to be, for we afterwards 
became very warm friends. 

He had been at Coramballa nine months or 
so when some lady cousins braved the solitudes 
of the bush and paid us a visit at Wealdiwindi. 
Devereux had never been to our station, and 
thinking this a good opportunity to “ draw him 
out,” I rode over to invite him to spend a week 
or two with us. He listened to me, and then 
quietly and politely declined the invitation. 
Noticing my look of chagrin, he said, in an 
apologetic tone,— 


14 


158 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


“ You perhaps think me a boor in declining 
your hospitality, but I came out to this sparsely- 
settled country expressly to avoid society of any 
kind. I do not wish to appear churlish, and 
though, believe me, I value your friendship very 
highly, I cannot make any exception to what 
is now the rule of my life, even for you. But 
come in and take something to drink.” 

We sat down in the front room: Hevereux 
mixed a couple of glasses of grog and tilled his 
pipe. He smoked in silence awhile as if con¬ 
sidering something. Then he laid his pipe 
aside, got up and took a photograph from a 
bracket on the wall. He handed it to me, and 
said, abruptly,— 

“ Ho you recognize that ?” It was the picture 
of a bright, smiling, manly-looking young fellow 
of some one or two and twenty. There was an 
expression about the eyes that reminded me 
somewhat of his own; but when I looked at his 
bronzed, heavily-bearded face, and again at the 
picture of the laughing young fellow, hairless 
save for a small curling moustache, the sem¬ 
blance seemed to vanish. 

“ I can’t say I do,” I replied, after looking at 
the photograph for some moments. “I don’t 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 159 

think it is any one I have seen before. Is it a 
brother of yours ?” 

“No,” said Devereux, with a peculiar sad 
smile. “He was not a brother of mine.” 
Again he smoked awhile in silence, and I 
looked at the picture, wondering whether it was 
a link in the chain of his past. 

“No,” he repeated, musingly. “He was not 
a brother of mine, though ten years ago we 
were alike as two peas. If it will not bore you, 
I will tell you an episode in his life.” 

“ Fire away!” said I, filled with astonishment 
at the idea of his telling a story : he had barely 
uttered twenty consecutive words during our 
nine months’ acquaintance. 

He laid down his pipe, took a sip at his grog, 
and began,— 

“ With Jack’s,—I need not give you his other 
name, every one called him Jack,—with Jack’s 
early youth we have nothing to do. It will be 
sufficient for me to say that at the usual age he 
went to Rugby, where he was somewhat of a 
‘dab’ at cricket and foot-ball. After several 
years of floundering among Greek roots and 
algebraic formula at that ancient seat of 
juvenile learning, he somehow managed to 


160 the other fellow. 

scuffle into Sandhurst, and in due time got a 
commission. While at Sandhurst, Jack, who 
was a romantic, susceptible fellow, became ac¬ 
quainted with the daughter of a half-pay officer 
who lived in that vicinity. 

“ She was one of the prettiest girls I ever saw. 
Such eyes, such hair, and such a figure, and 
withal of gentle, loving nature. 'No wonder 
Jack lost his heart. I said Jack lost his heart. 
I should rather have said he fell madly in love 
with her, for, if there is such a passion as the 
love poets dream of and novelists rave about, 
Jack experienced it in all its Ouidaesque 
intensity. 

“ He was two and twenty then,—-just the age 
when the boyish heart is most prone to such 
weaknesses. And Claire—Claire Tempest was 
her name—loved Jack,—at least she said she 
did,—and Jack was just the happiest, brightest 
fellow in the world. 

“ Jack was poor,—poor as a church mouse. 
He had, in fact, nothing but his commission; 
and you probably know what a miserable dog 
an officer is in the British army who has no 
private fortune. And Claire’s prospects were 
not much brighter, her father having' only a 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


161 


limited income outside of liis lialf-pay. But, 
then, they loved each other, these two, and in 
that blissful knowledge they spent a happy year 
exchanging vows, altogether regardless of the 
cold logic of finance. Then Jack asked the 
general for Claire’s hand, whereat the old 
soldier stormed and swore, called Jack a 
4 damned, presumptuous young pauper,’ and 
threatened to kick him out of the house if he 
ever mentioned or thought of such a thing 
again. 

“Jack was bound to admit that he was a 
pauper,—his worldly possessions amounted to 
something less than seven hundred pounds; but 
he thought the old general might have ex¬ 
pressed his opinion in more euphemistic lan¬ 
guage. 

44 So Jack talked the matter over with Claire, 
and they came to the conclusion that they could 
not marry on his pay. Would she wait ? Claire 
kissed him, and with love’s sweet hyperbole said 
she would wait a hundred years for 4 her Jack.’ 

“ And Jack, looking at the subject from all its 
bearings, decided that there was nothing for it 
but to emigrate. 

444 Far pastures are always green,’ you know, 
l 14 * 


162 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


and after a great deal of looking over pamphlets 
and other printed matter eulogistic of colonial 
advantages, he decided upon South Africa as 
his future home. 4 There’s gold and diamonds 
out there,’ he argued to himself with boyish 
enthusiasm; 4 and I have youth, and health, and 
strength, and seven hundred pounds, and I must 
succeed.’ 

44 He took a couple of months’ leave before 
resigning and went down to visit some relatives 
in the west of England. During his absence, 
Claire was introduced to a Mr. Forester, some 
London financial swell, a fellow with heaps of 
tin, stocks, and bonds, and all that sort of thing, 
and an ofiice on Lombard Street. He paid 
Claire marked attention, and visited the gen¬ 
eral’s house so frequently, and took Claire to 
balls and operas and all that kind of thing, that 
people began to say they were engaged. 

44 Jack heard of this in some way, and, of 
course, being deeply in love, became insanely 
jealous. He came back post-haste. His first 
question after the usual lovers’ greeting was,— 

44 4 What is all this about this banker fellow?’ 

44 4 Why, Jack, what do you mean? which 
banker fellow ?’ Claire asked, innocently. 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


163 


“ ‘ 'Which hanker fellow ?’ blurted Jack, 
fiercely. 4 Why, the hanker fellow,—the fellow 
from London.’ 

44 4 Oh!’ smiled Claire, 4 Mr. Forester. Why, 
Jack, you silly, jealous hoy, he is fifty,—old 
enough to he my father twice over.’ 

“ 4 And you don’t care a rap for him,—and,— 
and it’s not true what people say ?’ gulped Jack. 

44 And then Claire nestled close to him and 
said,— 

“ 4 Oh, Jack, my own darling Jack, how could 
you think it,’ and held up her pretty face to he 
kissed, and of course Jack kissed it, believed 
her, and was happy again. 

44 Well, the time came for him to leave. The 
old general was so glad to get him out of the 
way that he yielded to Claire’s entreaties, and 
took her down to Southampton to see Jack off*. 

44 Jack lingered at the gangway at the immi¬ 
nent risk of missing the steamer, and, at the 
final moment, strained Claire to his breast in a 
last fond embrace, while she repeated for the 
hundredth time a tearful promise to wait for 
and think of him always. 

44 Jack stood at the stern, gazing at the re¬ 
ceding shore with misty eyes, until the slender 


164 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


figure waving the last good-by was lost in the 
blur of distance. 

44 Poor Jack! How bravely he tried during 
the voyage to be his old genial self. If he had 
not felt Claire to be the most loving, trustful, 
faithful girl in all the world, I believe he would 
have been tempted to go back; but he had every 
faith in her constancy, and he felt that he must 
brave this separation a few years for her sake. 

“ At the Cape he tried everything that a 
4 new chum’ with limited means usually does. 
He 4 dabbled’ in wool, in cattle, and in mining 
shares, and while he met with varying success, 
as the old bush song says, he 

‘ . did no good at all, as a rule.’ 

44 But Jack was stout-hearted and hopeful and 
had no doubt of ultimate success. He wrote 
cheering letters, to which, in due time, loving 
answers came. Suddenly, however, these an¬ 
swers ceased, and when week after week passed, 
and no replies came to his letters, he grew 
despondent and gloomy. 

44 4 She could not have forgotten him so soon.’ 
Either she was ill or her father intercepted his 
letters. There was something wrong, but it 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 165 

was not with her. He would have staked his 
soul on her faith and love. And then he 
would write another letter. 

“ About this time the trouble with the Basutos 
began. The organization of the Mounted Rifles 
appealed to Jack’s soldier instincts, and he re¬ 
solved to join them. He invested his remaining 
capital in some mining shares, and enlisted. 
His former military training here stood him in 
good stead, and promotion came rapidly. Jack’s 
low spirits revived under the excitement of the 
times, and he was once more his old genial 
self. 

“Well, I’m getting rather long-winded, am I 

not ? So I’ll cut it short. Those niggers gave 

ns lots of work, and on several occasions made 

things rather lively for us. One day we met 

them in force, and for a time matters went 

against us. A whole lot of them were sheltered 
© 

in a belt of scrub on our right, from which they 
picked us off at their leisure. Mind you, these 
were no naked assegai-throwing savages, but 
fellows who were armed as well as we were, and 
no mean marksmen, either. 

“ ‘ If we only had a mountain howitzer,’ 
sighed the colonel, 4 I’d make it hot for those 


166 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


black devils. But we haven’t, so it’s got to be 
done some other way.’ 

“ 4 Captain Travers,’ he said to the captain of 
Jack’s troop, 4 take your troop and clean those 
beggars out’ 

“ Travers saluted and formed the troop for 
the duty assigned him. Many a stout fellow’s 
heart came into his mouth, for there would be a 
score of empty saddles when the troop came 
back, if, indeed, it ever came back at all. 
Travers rode at the scrub, and soon men began 
to fall. Half-way over, Travers wavered. He 
had lost his lieutenant and twelve men already, 
and the troop was only three-quarters strong. 
As he turned in the saddle to shout some order, 
a bullet struck him in the temple and he fell 
from his horse. Instantly, Jack—he was troop 
sergeant-major—rode to the front. 4 Follow me, 
boys,’ he shouted, 4 I command this troop now.’ 
And his stentorian 4 Charge!’ met with a wild, 
responsive hurrah from the men. His enthu¬ 
siasm aroused their flagging spirits and filled 
them with all their old dash and vim. 

44 "Well, we cleaned those niggers out com¬ 
pletely, but Jack was brought back with a hole 
in his shoulder, and invalided to the rear. His 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 167 

wound turned out to be more serious than at first 
supposed, the ball having passed perilously close 
to a main artery. The doctor looked grave, and 
said that Jack had a chance, but that it wasn’t 
worth much. And, indeed, it was touch and go 
with him for days. But when he began to 
mend, there was good news for him. A letter 
from Capetown informed him that, owing to 
some remarkably rich 4 finds , 5 his mining shares 
had been sold at a large profit, and that some¬ 
thing like ten thousand pounds lay to his credit 
in the Bank of Africa, at Capetown. 

“ This news gave him new heart. The tide 
had turned, luck was his at last. The thought 
filled his feeble frame with a glow of ecstacy. 
Ten thousand pounds would buy a handsome 
property in South Africa, and as soon as he was 
able he would go over to England and bring her 
out. But he might die. He was yet pale and 
feeble, with but a frail hold on life. He would 
secure his little fortune to her in case anything 
should happen to him. So that evening he sent 
for a lawyer to make his will, and when he had 
appended a faint scrawl to it by way of signature, 
he went to sleep with hope and love in his heart. 

“A week or so later the English mail was 


168 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


due. I remember the day very well. It was a 
calm, still morning, and the sun shone in through 
the open window, making the plain, whitewashed 
room look quite bright and cheery. Jack lay 
near the window, looking for the hoisting of the 
flag on the Government building that announced 
the arrival of the mail. 

“ It was a long time since he had had a letter. 
How anxiously he had awaited the arrival of 
every mail, and how confidently he had ex¬ 
pected that when one failed the next would 
surely bring him news. 

“ He watched the distribution of the letters in 
the ward with hungry eyes. Sure enough, there 
was a letter for him, and from Claire, too How 
his heart leaped when he saw it. He opened 
it with trembling fingers, and then uttered a 
strange gulping sound that brought the nurses 
quickly to his side. At first they thought this 
sudden shock was death. But he had only 
swooned, and beside him on the coverlet lay the 
cause,—the delicately perfumed note from Claire. 

“Well, perhaps she only did what nine women 
out of ten would have done, and no doubt was 
congratulated by her friends on having taken a 
very sensible course. 


THE OTHER FELLOW. 


169 


“ And Jack ? No, he did not die. But that 
letter killed all faith and hope and belief within 
him. It filled his heart with gall and worm¬ 
wood, and made him a cynic, a misanthrope, a 
hermit, if you will. 

“ What was in the note ? It is so long ago 
now that I can’t recall the exact words. But it 
ran somehow like this,— 

“ ‘ Dear Jack, —All your letters have been re¬ 
ceived. The last one touched me so I had to 
write and tell you. It was foolish of us to care 
for each other, Jack. I was poor and you were 
poorer; why then should we waste the best years 
of our lives in waiting for that which could 
never be. Poor people have no right to fall in 
love. Good-hy, Jack; if you ever cared for me, 
forgive me, and in time you will forget.’ 

“ It was signed Claire Forester. She had 
married the hanker, and,—and,—well, that is 
all.” 

“And what became of the other fellow,—of 
Jack ?” I asked. 

“ Oh!” said Devereux, calmly, as he refilled 
his pipe, “ I am the other fellow.” 















































































. 









































BUTTONS. 


































































































































BUTTONS. 


I. 

“Eyes” the girls called him. Well might 
they have sung,— 

“ And when your glances rest on me, 

Right here they make me feel so funny.” 

The class called him “ Shanks,” for he was very 
long, and to see him in the riding-hall with 
those legs of his clasping the hare ribs of a 
Roman-nosed brute that had broken the head 
of nearly every other man that had tried to 
ride him, was a sight for gods and men. At 
least Tommy Dobbs thought so, but then to 
little Tommy “ Shanks” was perfection. 

It was at the “ Graduation Hop;” the emanci¬ 
pated sure-of-diplomas had resolved to let their 
moustaches grow, and, with the energies that 
remained, assisted by Strauss and Waldteufel, 
to waltz into the hearts of all the pretty girls in 
the room. All of them—the girls—were eager 
to dance with “ Eyes,” and many a heart flut- 
15 * 173 


174 


BUTTONS. 


tered as the tall, graceful cadet bowed and 
begged for the pleasure, et coster a. Yet he 
chose to dance oftener with Miss Daisy Van 
Stump than with any of the others, and as the 
twain glided noiselessly over the glassy floor, 
many another pair paused to admire what 
seemed to be the poetic embodiment of the 
melody the band was playing. 

But even waltzes must have an end, and as 
the “ voluptuous swell” ceased, “ Eyes” and his 
fair partner strolled away from the room, out 
upon the green and towards the Hudson, whose 
calm waters reflected the twinkling of the myr¬ 
iads of stars that shone in the cloudless blue 
above. 

44 And so you go away to-morrow, Miss 
Daisy?” 

44 Yes; in the morning.” 

44 Then I may not see you. I am so sorry-” 

44 So am I,—we go to the Springs,—but we 
shall see you in Yew York? We return in 
September; and, Mr. Eyes,—I beg pardon, 
Mr.-” 

44 Yo, no; call me 4 Eyes/ Miss Daisy. Ah! 
Daisy, if I may speak-” 

There! I can’t go on. There is but one 


BUTTONS. 


175 


language for this sort of thing, and as all of us 
have been in love at least once, it is hardly 
necessary to encumber the record with what 
would be simply a rehearsal of what has been 
going on ever since Adam and Eve began it. 
Ill-natured people say that Eve began it. Well, 
Em glad she did. Perhaps Adam was- 

But let us get back to our pair of rapt ones. 

There was moonlight all about them, music 
filled the air, and flowers bloomed amid the 
love that stirred their hearts. Why say more ? 
Stay! Yes: as they re-entered the room it was 
observed in a stage whisper by the eldest Miss 
Sternchase, who had been at the Point every 
season since the Mexican war, that a button was 
missing from the left breast of “ Eyes’s” jacket, 
and that one of the pale-blue satin lozenges that 
adorned Miss Daisy’s gown was not where the 
eldest Miss Sternchase had last seen it. 

The next afternoon many people stood on the 
wharf waiting for the steamer which was to 
carry them away. The Van Stump family— 
father, mother, and Daisy—were of the number, 
and the crowd was freckled here and there with 
youthful militaires ,—some going away, many say¬ 
ing the last few words they would ever speak to 


176 


BUTTONS. 


the pink ears that listened ; that had listened to 
others the year before; whose owners would be 
ready the coming summer to accept the devo¬ 
tion of the next graduating class. But Miss 
Daisy was not one of these light-hearted triflers, 
—at least as far as “ Eyes” was concerned; and 
he, too, was there, looking as if, but for the 
bystanders and Van Stump pfre et mere , he 
would have taken her in his arms and kept her 
there forever. But he couldn’t. 

Van Stump plre was said to be “made of 
money,” and he looked it. The mere was fat, 
forty, and very red. People said that while her 
husband furnished the money, all the “ blood” 
was on her side. Miss Daisy was a darling. 
How she became possessed of such parents—I 
mean as to looks—Mr. Darwin might have ex¬ 
plained. I can’t. She was tall,—not too tall,—a 
figure round, yet lithe and springy, with violet 
eyes and hair of wavy chestnut; a face that was 
grave when in repose, and that flashed like a 
sudden burst of sunshine when she smiled; and 
she had that “ excellent thing,”—a voice that 
was “ ever soft, gentle, and low.” 

So “Eyes” had to content himself with the 
barest of partings,—a throbbing grasp; a yearn- 


BUTTONS. 


177 


ing look; a tremulous “good-by;” a whispered 
“God bless you!” Then “all aboard!” was 
sung out. The boat moved into mid-stream, 
leaving poor “ Eyes” on the pier to watch with 
all his soul the fast-receding face and form of 
what was all the world to him. 

He had actually forgotten that a Being with a 
tape-measure was waiting at the other end of 
the road to take his measure for a uniform! 
And as he walked quickly up the hill, little 
Dobbs, very much out of breath, overtook him. 

“ Hallo, Shanks, old boy! What’ll you give 
for some news ? I’ve seen the list. You and I 
get the —th Cavalry,—think of it! So we may 
as well go out together.” 

“ Congraulate you, Chick,” was the reply. 

“ Chick” was the fond abbreviation of Chi- 
quito, as Tommy was styled by the class “ for 
short,” somebody said. 

Shanks had naturally asked for a cavalry regi¬ 
ment, but how Chick had managed to climb into 
the saddle was not patent to the rest of the class, 
who knew his capacity for tumbling head-first 
into the tan-bark whenever his steed—and all 
the horses in the riding-hall were acquainted 
with Tommy—grew tired of drill. There was 


178 BUTTONS. 

but one solution,—he had used family influ¬ 
ence (for he came from the whisky part of 
Kentucky) to claim such an assignment in order 
to be near his dearest friend. 

It was arranged, then, that “ the twins,” as 
they were sometimes called, should start in com¬ 
pany for Dakota, on whose wide plains their 
regiment was fast forgetting all about civiliza¬ 
tion. 

“ And now,” said Chick, “ what are you going 
to do with yourself? I must go home, of 
course; but, hang it! I don’t want to stay in 
that distillery-soaked country too long, and shall 
get to the seaside as soon as a decent regard for 
the bones of my ancestors will permit.” 

“ To say the truth, Chick, I hardly know; my 
guardian’s people expect me to spend part of 
the next three months with them; but I shall 
run away down to the sea, and take a good long 
look at it, for you and I, dear boy, are not likely 
to see much salt-water in the next few years. 
"Where do you bring up ?” 

“Oh, I shall go to that place where they have 
a lot of rocks and sand, and fish and things. 
Somewhere in Maine,—hang it! I can’t think 
of the name. I’ve had to remember such a lot 


BUTTONS. 


179 


of stuff about HO 2 , and all the rest of it (so 
useful in the cavalry), that hang me if I can 
recollect anything that I do want to know. But 
it begins with a B and has a pool, whatever that 
is.” 

“ Chick, my boy, that’s just where I’m going, 
—Biddeford Pool. Meet me there. Let’s see, 
—I must go to Richfield in ” 

“Yes; I know. She will be there. Goon. 
Congratulate you, old fellow, and all that; lots 

of tin, and as for beauty-” Here Chick 

clasped his hands and gazed at the sky. 

“ Don’t be a donkey, Dobbs. I shall be there” 
(severely)—“ at Biddeford in August.” 

“ Pardon me. But, Shanks, dear old follow, 
I saw it all when you both came back to the 
ball-room last night, and—Gad! I’m as happy 
about it as if—as if—as if I were going to marry 
you myself!” 

By this time the two friends had reached the 
hallowed spot where the Being from Yew York 
was waiting with the tape-measure. One of the 
results of his efforts was rather startling to 
Tommy’s mamma, who said, when her son ap¬ 
peared to her wondering eyes in the full-dress 
uniform of a second lieutenant of cavalry, 


180 


BUTTONS. 


“ Sakes alive, Tommy! if you don’t look jest 
like the inside of a mustard-pot!” 

II. 

The harvest moon in the fullness thereof was 
making a very early start just above the eastern 
horizon, glinting with a rosy red the jagged 
rocks that make picturesque the southwest coast 
of Maine, and in the mellow light it cast along 
the glistening beach many pairs of human doves 
found food for tender words. But of these, two 
only are just now very interesting. 

Who were they ? 

Listen. 

“ What a delightful night for boating, is it 
not ?” This from one who at first glance looked 
very like the Daisy. 

But she wasn’t The. And yet her likeness 
to Daisy was the cause of the interest, the 
something, that, as it overhung the tender edge 
of friendship, was felt for her by her com¬ 
panion, who answered,— 

“Yes; look how the light seems to swim 
upon the waves. How calm it is!” 

A pudgy youth who was the male bird of the 
other pair, and none other than Tommy Dobbs, 


BUTTONS. 


181 


with a new moustache looking like the business 
end of an old tooth-brush, here lifted up his 
voice with,— 

“ I say, Shanks! we are about to get up a 
rowing-party to the island and back, and you 
and Miss Mop us are booked to go.” 

“ Oh, that will be nice !” said the young lady, 
who was the one with whom Shanks was, as 
Tommy said, rather coarsely, “ keeping his 
hand in.” “Really, Mr. Sinclair, of all things 
in the world a moonlight row is what I most 
dote on.” 

And his name was Jack Sinclair. The girls 
hereabout did not call him “ Eyes,” as did those 
who knew him where he wore gray cloth and 
pipe-clay; and yet they felt the magic of his 
glance none the less. 

In a few minutes the big barge, filled with a 
jolly, melodious crowd, was off and away o’er 
the waters blue, but Jack and Miss Mopus were 
not in it. 

How did this happen ? 

This was the way. When the party arrived 
at the pier whence they were to descend into 
the barge, Jack and Miss Mopus, who had 
stopped to admire a cloud-effect or something 
16 


182 


BUTTOXS. 


else, were a little in the rear of the column. I 
say Jack and Miss Mopus, but it was Miss M. 
who did the halting, and Jack, out of his 
natural courtesy, forbore to urge her onward. 
Poor hoy! this gentleness cost him much. 

So when they did at length reach the stairs at 
the foot of which the barge rocked lazily, it— 
the boat—was quite comfortably full, and the 
only available place was a bit of a triangular 
seat up in the bow, fall of holes like a colan¬ 
der, upon which Miss Mopus said she would ivot 
sit: they must find room elsewhere. 

“ But, hang it!—I beg pardon!—you can't. 
We’re like a lot of sardines back here. Might 
make room for you , Miss Mopus, and 1*11 give 
way for Shanks and go ashore.” All this from 
Tommy Dobbs. 

But Tommy's young lady was not going to 
stand any such nonsense, and she said, in a low 
but very energetic voice, that gave promise of 
an uncertain future for him who should win— 
I had almost said “and wear”—her; but she 
would do the wearing:,— 

O' 

“ Mr. Dobbs, you are not going to desert me 
for that Mr. Shanks, I know.” 

Before Tommy could say a word either way 


BUTTONS. 


183 


Shanks called out, in his big voice, “No, no, 
Chick! Stay where you are. There’s a little 
4 dinky’ tied somewhere here, and Miss Mopus 
and I will soon he in your wake. You will not 
mind going with me, Miss Mopus ?” 

44 Oh, no; should be charmed, Mr. Shan— 
Mr. Sinclair.” 

So, as soon as the barge crew pulled away 
from the pier, Shanks, having found the 
“ dinky,” brought it to the foot of the dripping 
steps, and Miss Mopus was soon sitting in the 
stern-sheets, her hand on the tiller, having on 
the way thither made two ingeniously unsuc¬ 
cessful attempts to swamp the craft by twice 
convulsively seizing Shanks as he stood up to 
assist her across the thwarts. Off they went in 
the track of the bubbles left in the wake of the 
barge, now many yards ahead. But Shanks 
pulled a strong oar, and at first it looked as if 
the distance might decrease; but it didn’t. The 
little boat was so light, and Miss Mopus was so— 
well, not heavy, but her heavenly body was of the 
first magnitude—that the 44 dinky’s” bow stood 
up a little, and, as the light chopping sea slapped 
at her, showed just a little bit of keel. Conse¬ 
quently rowing was difficult work, even for one 


184 


BUTTONS. 


who, like Shanks, had had the odor of brine in 
his nostrils all his life. And thus it happened 
that the barge, rapidly gaining, soon rounded the 
rocky point of the island and was lost to view. 

Shanks saw nothing of this, for, like the man 
in the song, he “looked one w r ay and rowed 
another.” Courtesy demanded that he should 
look at his vis-a-vis , who would look at him and 
talk, and he found it a pleasant thing to do, 
though his heart was safe in the memory of the 
one dear girl far away. Miss Mopus talked 
very well; she was very pretty; and being like 
Daisy in many things physical, there was, as I 
have said, a certain tie, made up of interest, as 
one would feel in gazing at a not-too-well- 
drawn picture of a friend. Like and yet not 
like. That sort of thing. 

Well, the lady talked. They all do, bless 
their dear souls!—yes. Some more than others, 
—never less. And as she talked and gazed on 
the handsome brown face before her, she paid 
no attention to the course of the vessel she was 
assumed to be steering, when, all at once,— 
bump! and Miss Mopus fell nearly into the 
arms of Shanks, who, easing oars, replaced the 
lady, and remarked,— 




BUTTONS. 


185 


“ Great Scott! what’s that ?” And without 
waiting for a reply, turned his head to find that 
the nose of the “ dinky” was fast in the sandy 
beach. So much for Miss Mopus’s steering! 

“ I say, Miss Mopus, we can’t cross the island, 
you know.” And the youngster laughed. 

It was not polite, and she chose to he in a 
little pet. One does not like to be told of one’s 
faults, and least of all by the one who is dear, 
and Miss Mopus had begun to find that Shanks 
was very dear to her. There was enough in the 
situation—the moonlight, the everything—to 
make fire where but an hour ago was just a 
little smoke. And when Shanks apologized for 
his rudeness in his soothing way, Miss Mopus’s 
heart fell fluttering at his feet. But he knew it 
not. Not he! He was too modest, too loyal to 
th© girl whose blue lozenge, held by a golden 
thread about his neck, lay close against his 
heart (for he was a little bit sentimental), to 
dream that any one else could weave a tender 
thought for him. And yet when the Mopus laid 
her soft, white, perfectly modeled hand on his, 
pressing it just a little; looked with her deep 
gray eyes, that had a nice way of dilating and 
moistening, into his, and said in her full voice, 
16 * 


186 


BUTTONS. 


so like Daisy’s own, that she forgave him, it 
must be confessed that he felt a little queer. 
Man is called the sterner sex, but really, in a 
case of this kind, the odds are on the other 
side. 

However, he said nothing,—nothing that his 
Daisy, had she then arisen like another Aphro¬ 
dite from the sparkling foam, might not have 
listened to, but he did say,— 

“ The barge must be just round that point, 
and, if you like, Miss Mopus, we may as well 
scramble over the rocks and surprise them all. 
They won’t expect to see us coming overland,— 
I know every step of the way.” 

“ Nothing could be better, I’m sure, for I feel 
just a little cramped, from sitting so long. So 
good of you to propose a walk.” 

So Shanks sprang out, taking with him a 
light, three-pronged anchor secured by a line, 
the other end of which w r as reeved in a ring set 
in the bow. This he sunk in the sand, and then 
returned to the boat, from which he helped Miss 
Mopus to disembark, the seizing business being 
repeated as she skipped over the gunwale to the 
somewhat sloppy beach. Foreseeing that the 
ebbing tide might leave the boat high and dry, 


BUTTONS. 


187 


he gave it plenty of rope, and midway upon the 
line set a heavy stone to prevent the “ slack” 
dragging the anchor. Then the pair started for 
the other side of the rocky point. 

The way was rough and rugged, and the 
moon had a tantalizing way (Shanks thought,— 
Mopus didn’t) of going behind bits of black 
with silver-edged cloud when they came to a 
place where the assistance of a strong arm was 
necessary. The situation was not without its 
charm, for when the moon chose to do the 
magic-lantern act, Miss Mopus would creep con¬ 
fidingly closer to her escort. Yet, notwith¬ 
standing the animal, man, usually becomes 
human under such circumstances, Shanks be¬ 
haved in so stolid a way that Miss Mopus 
thought him decidedly the reverse. And so, in 
this manner, the pair surmounted the point and 
descended to the beach on its other side to find 
—nothing! No barge, no party, nothing but 
the beach glistening like a white ribbon twixt 
them and the deep, blue, moonlit expanse of 
dancing water that stretched away until it met 
the star-specked sky. 

“ Why—wh—where are they ?” from Miss 
Mopus. 


188 


BUTTONS. 


“ They didn’t land here at all,” said Shanks, 
who had been looking up and down the smooth 
beach for tracks and footprints, but had found 
none. 

“ Then what shall we do ?” 

“ Only one thing to do,—go back.” 

And so they went hack over the rocks with 
the same experience as to moon, clouds, and so 
on, hut less enthusiasm on the part of Shanks, 
who didn’t quite like the way the bargeites had 
given him the slip, as he thought. And he had 
let Miss Mopus steer! and, of course—hut then 
it would be unmanly to blame her. He ought 
to have kept a sharp lookout and followed the 
barge. Miss Mopus was not at all put out. 
Hers was one of those large, unangular, indolent 
natures that seldom take things au serieux until 

they begin to look very black, and then- 

But at present everything was roseate and fair 
in her mind’s eye, and she may have clung a 
little closer to her escort’s arm as they toiled up 
and down the smooth, moss-grown rocks that 
lay twixt them and the place where they had 
left the “ dinky” dancing on the wave. 

And when they got there, the “ dinky” was— 
where ? 


BUTTONS 


189 


“We can’t have lost our way! This, cer¬ 
tainly, was the spot where we left our boat,” 
said Shanks, dropping Miss Mopus’s arm and 
running to the edge of the shore, apparently in 
search of something, which he soon found. It 
was a stone, beneath it a rope, the end of which 
was ragged, as if it had been sawed in twain. 
This was the end towards the sea. The other 
seemed to be fast; and going towards it, Shanks 
found the anchor as he had left it, half buried 
in the sand. It seemed that the ebb of the tide 
had tautened the line, and the swaying motion of 
the boat had caused the strands to part as they 
worked back and forth against the edges of the 
rough stone which Shanks had placed on it. 
This very precaution had caused the disaster. 

With a sinking heart he turned to say what 
could not be left unsaid; but the lady did not 
wait for him. She was, to put it mildly, in a 
rage. She reasoned, or rather, she concluded, 
for in the state of mind she found herself in 
just then reason had no place, that poor Shanks 
had purposely kept out of the way of the larger 
boat, and that the disappearance of the “ dinky” 
had been part of his plan. It was an outrageous 
thought, and she was insane enough to give it 


190 


BUTTONS. 


words. She could have torn her tongue away 
a moment afterwards when she saw the horror 
that stood in his ey^s. 

For a moment Shanks was silent. Then he 
spoke: “ Miss Mopus, you wrong me terribly. 
But it is not far to the Pool; I think I can 
make it in an hour, and soon afterwards you 
will be with your friends.” 

He slipped off the light sack he wore, and 
kicking off his low shoes, ran swiftly to where 
the sea met the shore. But she was at his side 
in a moment, all anger gone, and, catching him 
by the sleeve,— 

“ What do you mean to do ?” 

He stopped,—gently tried to take his arm 
from her grasp, saying, quietly, “ Swim to the 
Pool, Miss Mopus. Do not detain me. The 
tide is now at a stand, and time is precious.” 

“ Swim ! Oh, you will not be so rash ! For 
my sake, too, after I have been so—so—so un¬ 
just ! To risk your like for-” 

“Miss Mopus,” said Shanks, “I must leave 

you. I cannot permit-” 

“You shall not go! That is, not without me; 
I mean- Oh! Jack, do you not under¬ 

stand what I mean ? Forgive me for the horrid 


BUTTONS. 


191 


words I spoke. What must you think of me! 
Do not despise me, Jack; do not leave me!” 
And with tears she threw her arms about him. 

He endeavored to escape from the encircling 
folds of her warm embrace, but so lirm was her 
convulsive clasp that without roughness he 
could not. In vain he protested that he was 
quite able to swim, that he had often accom¬ 
plished even greater distances, and that she 
ought for her own sake to release him and let 
him take advantage of the tide ere it turned. 
But to all this was she deaf, averring that she 
would not cease to cling to him; that if he went 
into the water it must be with her arms about 
him; and at last, with beseeching tears and 
frantic words, extorted from him a promise 
which a moment later he cursed himself for 
giving,—that he would abandon all thought of 
swimming across the water, which now, owing 
to the freshening breeze, was beginning to chop 
about unpleasantly. 

Then she let go, with a long sigh, and Shanks, 
who saw that he was in for it, led her away 
from the damp sand to where it was dryer and 
less open to the moist and chilling wind. Then 
he quickly brought together some of the flotsam 


192 


BUTTONS. 


and jetsam that formed the high-water mark, 
and having in his pocket matches, made a fire. 
A larsre, hollowed rock formed a convenient 
resting-place, and soon Miss Mopus was, she 
said, quite comfortable. Shanks sat down on 
another rock near by, and, at Miss Mopus’s 
desire, lit a cigar. She “ adored cigars.” But 
he was very silent. She thought to herself that, 
considering how affairs stood, he might say 
something; hut she failed to take notice that the 
standing of these affairs was a little one-sided, 
and yet she was very happy. She might have 
been vexed at his moody silence had she not 
begun to be very sleepy. The long walk, the 
excitement and reaction, the fresh breeze, the 
warmth of the blazing pile, the fumes of the 
cigar, all combined to overcome her senses, and, 
leaning against the rock, she gently lapsed into 
the land of dreams. 

Shanks sat still and pondered. He knew 
enough of the world to be certain that lots of un¬ 
pleasant things would be said about them both, 
and as he smoked and thought, he resolved, as 
he glanced at the sleeping girl, that he would do 
all that any man might be called upon to do in 
such a case. Tender thoughts of Daisy came 


BUTTONS. 


193 


upon him, and the sweet tones of her voice as 
she had said good-by, after a week of bliss at 
Richfield, came back as if borne upon the wave. 
She would hear of this; he should certainly tell 
her of it. It would come best from him. Then 
came the thought: Why on earth those people 
over there did not send in search of them? 
Perhaps they were looking for them,—yet it 
was strange they did not come to the island. 
Then again, why should they come to the 
island ? Altogether it was very unpleasant, and 
he longed for morning. At last the rosy sun 
shot up from the sea, and Shanks began to feel 
that, as the night had passed away, it might not 
prove such a confounded mess after all; so 
piling a few sticks on the dying embers, he lit 
a fresh cigar and strolled towards the beach. 

When at the edge of the shore, he gazed 
anxiously towards the Pool, half expecting to 
see something setting their way; but no,—there 
was nothing. He looked back at the place 
where he had left his companion. She had 
not stirred. Then he walked along the beach, 
which soon bent seaward, when in the red light 
of the early sun he saw, close at hand, that 
which made his heart stop, 
i n 17 


194 


BUTTONS. 


Not a hundred yards off, and held in a cluster 
of sharp, black rocks that stood up above the 
fast-rising wave, was a dark object that in¬ 
creasing daylight told him was a boat. 

It was the “ dinky.” But how came it there ? 
He saw it all: the ebbing tide had carried her 
that way,—she had jammed between the rocks, 
—the flood would soon carry her far away to 
sea. Not a moment was to be lost. In he 
plunged, and, after a few minutes’ rough buffet¬ 
ing with the white-caps which boiled about the 
jagged cliffs, his hand was upon the gunwale of 
the boat, that with this slight shock floated free 
in an instant. 

He lifted himself in; found the oars; at once, 
with a few swift nervous strokes, drove the 
“ dinky” half her length upon the sandy beach, 
and a moment later stood dripping like a Triton 
before Miss Mopus, who at that instant awoke. 

“ How you startled me! Have I been asleep ? 

But, Mr. Sinclair, why, are we- Oh, yes, I 

remember now; and you are so wet,—it has not 
rained?” 

“Pardon me if I am abrupt. But we have 
not a moment to lose. The boat is waiting. 
Come!” 


BUTTONS. 


195 


“The boat! And you have done what you 
said you would not do. You might have 
drowned, and what would have become of me ? 
Oh, Mr.—Jack!” 

“ I have not been to the Pool, Miss Mopus,” 
returned Shanks, who, in a few modest words, 
related what had happened. And then, in a 
moment more, the two castaways bade adieu to 
their island with light yet anxious hearts. 


III. 

W e have seen that the barge did not touch at 
the island, and hence it follows that, having cir¬ 
cled it about, its crew took it back to the Pool, 
where the party were not a little surprised to 
learn that Shanks and Miss Mopus had not re¬ 
turned. Still, no one thought of danger, and, 
after a few rather loud whispers, the matter 
appeared to have been dismissed from the minds 
of all save Tommy and his fair enslaver. 

“ Hang it! you know,” said little Tommy, “ I 
don’t like it at all. Engaged, you know, to the 
very loveliest creature you ever saw,”—a doubt¬ 
ful sniff from the lady,—“ and to go off and stay 
off in this way with another girl! It’s not a hit 


196 


BUTTONS. 


like old Shanks, Miss Bang,—well, Ophelia, 
then.” 

“ As for your Miss Mopus-” 

“ My Miss Mopus! • Well, I like that. Really, 
Miss Ban—Ophelia, then-” 

“ Be good enough not to interrupt. I am not 
surprised at any extraordinary departure from— 
from—well, you know what I mean—on the 
part of that young person; and as for that Mr. 
Shanks,—as he calls himself,—well, all men are 
alike.” 

“ I say, you know, Miss Ba—Ophelia, then, if 
all men were like old Shanks, what a jolly world 
this would be! Eh!” 

Miss Bang might have retorted, hut she re¬ 
frained; and the bright promise of an affec¬ 
tionate “ good-night” was eclipsed by the ap¬ 
pearance on the scene of Mr. and Mrs. Mopus, 
who were naturally worried about their daugh¬ 
ter. So the vestal Bang withdrew, accompanied 
by the small, malodorous watering-place lamp, 
leaving her Thomas to confront the anxious 
parents. 

To them Tommy told all that he knew, and 
w r ound up by advising them to go to bed, saying 
that everything was sure to be right, and that 


BUTTONS. 


197 


he would go down to the pier and wait for the 
truants. He confessed to himself that he did 
not see what good this would do, nor why it 
should have any soothing effect; hut the old 
people appeared to be easier, and that was 
something. 

When the “ dinky” hove in sight the next 
morning, an hour after sunrise, Tommy, with a 
severe face, stood at the head of the steps. 

He bowed with grave courtesy to Miss Mopus 
as she came up leaning on Shanks’s arm, and 
seemed half annoyed that she met his gaze so 
frankly. She put him wonderfully in mind of 
the Daisy as she had appeared upon her return 
to the ball-room that moonlit eve in June minus 
the blue button, and he couldn’t understand it 
at all. Shanks was very damp and distrait , and 
though he bore himself not untenderly towards 
his companion, there was nothing in his appear¬ 
ance to recall the night when he had lost a 
button. Tommy was not sorry to see his friend 
thus, but he did not like to find him quite so 
haggard and constrained. 

“ Hang it!” he said to himself, “ I don’t like 
it!” 

As soon as they reached the hotel, Miss 

17 * 


198 


BUTTONS. 


Mopus flew to her mamma, where, if you please, 
we will leave her for the present. 

“Now!” said Tommy, “come to my room. 
I want to talk with you. Come!” The little 
man’s dignity and abruptness would, under 
other circumstances, have brought a laugh from 
Shanks, but he felt the premonitory chill that 
heralds coming clouds, and meekly followed 
Tommy to No. 44. His own was No. 45; the 
two communicated. The little chap offered him 
a wicker flask, saying, “ I brought that from 
home.” And while Shanks helped himself, 
went on,— 

“ Ho you know what you have been about ?” 

“Ho I know? Of course I know that I’ve 
got that girl into a pretty mess,—and myself, 
too. But, Chick, it was all a mistake-” 

“Ho you call it a ‘mistake’ to stay out all 
night with-” 

“ Stop! not another word until you have 
heard me!” And then he rapidly told the 
story of the night’s adventure. 

Before he had finished, Tommy’s left arm was 
about his shoulders and their right hands were 
clasped. 

“But,” said Tommy, “my dear fellow, you 



BUTTONS. 


199 


must not hope that this will go down with the 
hollow crowd. If you hadn't found your boat 
and had stayed on the island until some of the 
natives had picked you up, it would have been 
better,—romantic, you know, and all that. But, 
from your own view of the case, I ask you what 
sort of a story will that woman from the Pacific 
slope, Mrs. Rummill, and her shadow, Miss 
Ekko, create out of such materials? What 
can you do? Then there’s poor Miss Mopus. 
Fight? yes; but you can’t call out the world. 
And as for the fair sex,—you know the luck 
Don Quixote had with the windmills.” 

“Well, then, what am I to do?” 

“Blessed if I know! Yes: take off those 
wet things and go to bed. I will be on the 
qui vive for public opinion, and—there goes the 
gong: I’m off!” 

So Shanks turned in, and Tommy went to 
breakfast. 

When Tommy returned to where he had left 
Shanks, one end of the matutinal cigar had 
gone out, while that which he held between his 
teeth was much out of condition. He was in 
such a rage. He slammed the door, flung his 
dumpy carcass into a chair, kicked the table, 


200 


BUTTONS. 


swore a little; and this awoke Shanks, lying in 
the next room, who called out,— 

“ That you, Chick ? What’s the matter ?” 

“ No end of a row. I shall not he surprised 
if you have a visit from Papa Mopus; so you 
had better get up and-” 

“What the devil- You don’t really 

mean-” 

“Yes, I do. That poor girl came down to 
breakfast with mamma just as if everything 
was all right, and-” 

“Well, isn’t it?” 

“Wait till I tell you. You need not fly out 

at me” 

“ Pardon, old fellow. Go on.” 

“ Granted. Now be quiet. As I was saying, 
Miss Mopus came down fresh, smiling, and 

looking as happy as if- I’m afraid you’ve 

made a mash there, Shanks.” 

“ Stuff!” 

“ Well, I was about to say 6 sour mash,’ of 
course, knowing how you stand in—in—another 
quarter; but every confounded woman in the 
place turned her back upon her. Cold cut and 
no mistake. And then they began to talk at 
her in that nice way women have. Said all 







BUTTONS. 


201 


sorts of really brutal tilings about you two being 
out all night, and that sort of thing. She 
couldn’t help hearing,—they didn’t whisper,— 
and after sitting a few moments at table, look¬ 
ing, as each horrid speech fell upon her ear, as 
if she had been stabbed, she burst into tears and 
rushed out of the room.” 

“ Great heaven! what have I done ?” from 
Shanks, now dressed and walking up and down 
Tommy’s apartment. 

“You? nothing! Couldn’t be helped, of 

course. And yet-” A mute shrug of the 

shoulders from Tommy, who then went on : “ I 
couldn’t stand this, you know, and broke out in 
a way that forced people to listen, and told the 
whole story.” 

“ Thanks! thanks !” 

44 Well, the men—there were not many about 
—seemed to see how it was; but the women 
—even my Ophe—Miss Bang, I mean—were 
worse than before. That horrid one—all red 
satin and diamonds—sneered out, 4 Quite the Ro¬ 
mance of a Poor Young Man,’ and Miss Ekko, 
of course, came in with 4 Poor Young Man.’ ” 

Shanks, with something between a curse and a 
groan, dropped into a chair. 



202 


BUTTONS. 


Tommy continued: “ Then I went out. I 
felt that if I didn’t go away I might say some¬ 
thing. So I went oif to the beach; but whom 
should I run across there but that fellow Swag, 
—J. B. Swag he calls himself. He was dis¬ 
posed to be confidential, but I promptly inti¬ 
mated to him that if he had any remarks to 
make it would give me pleasure to name a 
friend, who would make the usual arrange¬ 
ments. I don’t think he knew quite what I 
meant; but, if he had been a Kentucky gentle¬ 
man instead of a J. B. Swag-” 

A knock at the door, wdiich being opened 
disclosed a servant, who bore the card of Papa 
Mopus, upon which was a penciled request for 
a few moments’ private conversation with Lieu¬ 
tenant Sinclair. 

“ Show him up,” said Tommy; and as the 
door closed, “ Let him come in here, old chap. 
I’ll get out for a bit.” And, taking his friend’s 
hand, he added : “ Keep up your end of the log; 
it’s all right, you know.” 

“Never fear,” returned Shanks; “I’ll face 
the music.” 

The twins shook hands. Tommy descended 
to the parlors, and soon afterwards did penance 


BUTTONS. 


203 


by “ holding” worsted for Miss Bang, who was 
engaged upon a thing she called an afghan. 
Some called it Penelope’s web. 

The interview between Mr. Mopus and 
Shanks was said by those ladies whose rooms 
were on the same floor to have been “ very 
quiet.” They omitted to explain how they 
knew this, but they “knew” such a lot of 
things, that the Mopus family found it con¬ 
venient and merciful for themselves to leave the 
Pool that same day. 

The beach that afternoon was the scene of 
another interview, one which afforded entertain¬ 
ment and occupation for many eyes and tongues. 
The twins were in earnest conversation, fre¬ 
quently halting as if to emphasize their re¬ 
marks, and it was observed that Shanks ap¬ 
peared to be resolved upon something which 
seemed to call forth much energetic remon¬ 
strance from Tommy. Miss Bang, who, like 
the rest, could not hear a word, was, in con¬ 
sequence, fairly bubbling with that kind of 
wrath which seems to boil best ’neath vestal 
flame, and alluded to the now absent Miss 
Mopus as a “ creature.” 

The gong sounded as the pair approached the 


204 


BUTTOXS. 


house. Shauks went to his room,—didn’t want 
any tea; hut Tommy, whose appetite was proof 
against everything hut repletion, took his 
charmer in to table, where he nearly choked 
with rage and cold beef while the red satin 
female from the Pacific slope, her Miss Ekko, 
and his Ophelia made mincemeat of the de¬ 
parted Miss Mopus. 

Xext morning when the little man arose, he 
found upon his table a letter from Shanks, con¬ 
taining another, and explaining that he had 
gone,—didn't care to say good-by,—would soon 

meet him at Fort-, their station, and would 

he, when in Yew York, deliver the inclosed? 

Poor Tommy burst out crying. “ He's done 
it, then! He said he would. Poor, dear boy! 
TVkat an ass! Confound those women!” 

IV. 

It was September, in Yew York. The 
Van Stumps had returned. Mr. Van Stump 
was in stocks,—couldn’t stay away any longer; 
his rosy spouse declared there was nothing to 
eat in the country,—she was nearly starved; 
and Daisy was eager to see “ Eyes,”—he would 
be in the city in September. 



BUTTONS. 


205 


She had not had a letter for a week; but he 
was at the seaside,—yachting, perhaps; he 
would come himself, soon. Every ring at the 
door-bell made her heart throb; but he came 
not. 

One morning while at breakfast she saw in 
the Herald something that nearly stunned her. 
She looked again, doubting the evidence of her 
own eyes, to see announced the marriage of 
Lieutenant John Sinclair, U. S. Army, to Isa¬ 
bella, daughter of Mark Mopus, of-. She 

could read no more, but sat like a stone for a 
time, then rose and left the table, taking the 
newspaper with her to her own room. There, 
she locked the door, and tried to think. It was 
all over, then. Her dream had vanished; she 

had thought herself so happy, and now- 

But, stay,—it might not be her John Sinclair 
after all: it might be a trick,—a hoax. She had 
heard such things talked about. But then came 
the doubt* why had he not written? Why 
this ? Why that ? It seemed to her that until 
she knew that he had been false she must have 
faith in him. 

A ring at the door-bell! 

It caused her heart to throb, but it was not 
18 




206 


BUTTONS. 


the eager, expectant leap of yesterday. It was 
that of dread. 

A knock on her door. A card: 

“ Lieutenant Thomas Dobbs, 

U.S.A” 

It was not “ Eyeshut it was his dear friend. 

She might learn from him. Yes, she would 
see him at once. And down the stairs, with 
the fatal newspaper in her hand, she slowly 
walked to meet poor little Tommy, who would 
have looked only less like a wraith than herself 
if he could have looked like a wraith at all. 

Without waiting to offer any conventional 
remarks, Tommy, pointing to the paper she 
carried, said,— 

“You have seen it, then? This, perhaps” 
(here he presented the letter Shanks had con¬ 
fided to him), “will tell you all. I can’t.” 
And the tears stood in the little fellow’s round, 
honest eyes and trembled in his voice. 

She took it, but did not then break the seal. 

“ ‘ This will tell me all.’ All ? What? Hay, 
do not speak, Mr. Dobbs; I will read the 
letter.” 

She was very calm, although one hand played 


BUTTONS. 


207 


in a fitful way with a bell-button that hung from 
a chatelaine she wore. 

“Yes; read it, and let me say—you know— 
good-by. I couldn’t see you read it” (the tears 
were chasing one another down his cheeks). 
“ And so, Miss—Miss—Daisy ,—he always called 
you that,—I’ll say—goo—good-by.” 

They shook hands and parted. 

Tommy went to his hotel, rushed to his room, 
and passed the day in a most miserable state, 
forgetting all about dinner and Miss Bang,—the 
last-named charmer having returned to town. 

She went to her room. There she broke the 
seal and read “ Eyes’s” truthful account of what 
had occurred at the Pool. His letter concluded 
with this: 

“ And now, my heart’s own darling,—let me 
call you so for the last time,—I shall never call 
any one else so dearly,—you know what I must 
do. Such terrible things have been said—you, 
dear, sweet, pure heart, can never guess what— 
about this poor girl, that I, knowing myself to 
be their cause, feel that there is but one thing 
left for me to do. God forgive me if it be 
wrong. But I feel that it will be only right. I 
shall keep the blue button, dear, unless you 


208 


BUTTONS. 


send mine back to me. We shall meet again 
some day, but not here. God bless you, and 
farewell!” 

Later, those who sought her found her lying 
in a faint upon the floor. 

****** 

Among those who rode into the Valley of the 
Shadow of Death, which, one bright morning 
in June, lay crouching in swart, abhorrent form, 
was no better soldier than Lieutenant John Sin¬ 
clair, of the —th Cavalry, who, during the short 
halt which preceded the subsequent attack, 
crossed over to where little Tommy Dobbs, on a 
large and sedate horse, sat wondering what they 
were going to do next. 

“ Chick, old fellow,’’ said Shanks, in his 
gentle way,—gentler now than of yore,— 
“ Chick, good-by!” And he held out his hand, 
which Tommy squeezed. 

“Eh? Oh, of course. Good-by, Shanks. 
What’s up now ?” 

“Simply, Tommy, that I don’t think I shall 
get out of this affair. There’s going to be hot 
work.” 

“ Oh, come now, old fellow! You mustn’t 
talk about not pulling through. It won’t be 


BUTTONS. 


209 


much of a row. These things never are, yon 
know. Blaze away all day; great waste of 
ammunition; Indians suddenly disappear; long 
accounts from 4 Our Special Correspondent;’ 
everybody’s trousers worn out, and nobody 
hurt. That’s the style.” 

44 Yes, I know; but this will be different, and 
I want you to take charge of this and return it 

to- You know, Chick.” And he made as 

if he would take something from within the 
breast of the blue hunting-shirt he had on 
beneath his blouse. But at this moment the 
word was passed to mount, and Tommy, who 
was a little way off from his troop, dug spurs 
into his staid beast and cantered away, calling 
out,— 

44 Can’t stop now, Shanks. It’s all right. 
See you to-night. Dine with us,—antelope and 
slapjacks!” 

And when the smoke had cleared away, 
among the mutilated, despoiled, and slain were 
said to be Shanks Sinclair and Chiquito Dobbs, 
but their corpses could not be recognized. 

And when Rain-in-the-Face rode insolently 

into the agency at-, on the Upper Missouri, 

the wind that stirred the lappels of the cavalry 



210 


BUTTONS. 


officer’s blouse he wore (bloody, torn, and 
stained) exposed upon his tawny breast a blue 
satin button. 

Above a little iron cot within a cloistered 
room hangs a wreath of faded immortelles, 
within which in withered violets are the letters 
“ J. S.,” and from the wreath depends one silver 
button. 


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Picked Up in the Streets .By H. Schobert. 

Saint Michael .By E. Werner. 

Violetta .By Ursula Zoge von Manteufel. 

The Uady with the Rubies .By E. Marlitt 

Vain Forebodings .By E. Oswald. 

A Penniless Girl .By W. Heimburg. 

Quicksands .By Adolph Streckfuss. 

Banned and Blessed .By E- Werner. 

A Noble Name .By Claire von Gliimer. 

From Hand to Hand .By Golo Raimund. 

Severa .By E. Hartner. 

A New Race .By Golo Raimund. 

The Eichhofs .By Moritz von Reichenbach. 

Castle Hohenwald .By Adolph Streckfuss. 

Margarethe .By E. Juncker. 

Too Rich .By Adolph Streckfuss. 

A Family Feud .By Eudwig Harder. 

The Green Gate .By Ernst Wichert. 

Only a Girl .By Wilhelmine von Hillern. 

Why Did He Not Die ?.By Ad. von Volckhauser. 

Hulda .By Fanny Uewald. 

The Bailiff’s Maid .By E. Marlitt. 

In the Schillingscourt .By E. Marlitt. 

Countess Gisela* .By E. Marlitt. 

At the Councillor’s .By E. Marlitt. 

The Second Wife .By E. Marlitt. 

The Old Mam’selle’s Secret .By E. Marlitt. 

Gold Elsie .By E. Marlitt. 

The Tittle Moorland Princess .By E. Marlitt. 


“ Mrs. A. L. Wister, through her many translations of novels fronr^ the Ge» 
tnan, has established a reputation of the highest order for literary judgment, and for 
a long time her name upon the title-page of such a translation has been a sufficient 
guarantee to the lovers of fiction of a pure and elevating character, that the novel 
would be a cherished home favorite. This faith in Mrs. Wister is fully justified by 
the fact that among her more than thirty translations that have been published by 
.Lippincott’s there has not been a single disappointment. And to the exquisite 
judgment of selection is to be added the rare excellence of her translations, which 
has commanded the admiration of literary and linguistic scholars .”—Boston Home 
Journal. 


j. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA, 







































By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 


A Tragic Blunder. 

A Daughter’s Heart. 
A Bachelor’s Bridal. 


A Bad Lot. 

A Sister’s Sin. 
Jack’s Secret. 


i2mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. 


"Mrs. Cameron’s novels, ‘In a Grass Country/ 'A Daughter’s Heart/ 
4 A Sister’s Sin,' ‘Jack’s Secret/ have shown a high skill in inventing interesting 
plots and delineating character. All her stories are vivid in action and pure in 
tone. This one, ‘ A Tragic Blunder/ is equal to her best .”—National Tribune. 


This Wicked World. 

In a Grass Country. A Devout Lover. 

Vera Neville. A Life’s Mistake' 

Pure Gold. Worth Winning. 

The Cost of a Lie. A Lost Wife. 

Cloth, $1.00. 


** The works of this author are always pure in character, and can be safely put 
into the hands of young as well as old .”—Norristown Herald. 

“ A wide circle of admirers always welcome a new work by this favorite author. 
Her style is pure and interesting, and she depicts marvellously well the daily social 
.ife of the English people.”— St. Louis Republic. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 







By Marie Corelli. 


Barabbas: 

A DREAM OF THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. 
l2mo. Red buckram, $1.00. 

Puring its comparatively brief existence this remarkable book has been trans¬ 
lated into French, German, Swedish, Hindoostani, and Gujerati. In 
England and America, the phenomenal demand for the work still exhausts 
edition after edition in rapid succession. 

“ Tragic intensity and imaginative vigor are the features of this powerful tale." 
-—Philadelphia Ledger. 

“ A book which aroused in some quarters more violent hostility than any book 
of recent years. By most secular critics the authoress was accused of bad taste, 
bad art, and gross blasphemy ; but, in curious contrast, most of the religious papers 
acknowledged the reverence of treatment and the dignity of conception which 
characterized the work."— London Athenceum. 


The Sorrows of Satan; 

Or, The Strange Experience of one Geoffrey 
tempest, Millionaire. 

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY VAN SCHAICK. 

l2mo. Red buckram, $1.50. 

“ A very powerful piece of work. A literary phenomenon, novel, and even 
sublime.”— Review of Reviews. 

“ She is full of her purpose. Dear me, how she scathes English society 1 She 
exposes the low life of high life with a ruthless pen. The sins of the fashionable 
world made even Satan sad ; they were more than he could bear, poor man 1 The 
book is lively reading.”— Chicago Tribune. 


Cameos. 

i2mo. Red buckram, $1.00. 

“ Marie Corelli possesses a charm as a writer that perhaps has never been 
better displayed than in her recent work, ‘ Cameos.’ ”— Burlington Hawk-Eye. 

“ As long as Miss Corelli can write stories like these she will not lack readers. 
In this volume she gives new and convincing proofs of versatility, spirit, tender¬ 
ness, and power.”— Chicago Tribune. 


J. B. L1PP1NC0TT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 






By Marie Corelli. 


The Murder of Delicia. 

I2.m Red buckram, $1.25. 

“ The story is told with all the vigor and command of sarcasm which are pecu¬ 
liar to the author. It is a most interesting story, and the moral of it is a wholesome 
one.”— Buffalo Courier. 

“ Her style is so clear-cut, keen, and incisive, so trenchant and yet so delicate, 
so easily wielded—so like a javelin, in short—that one cannot but be fascinated 
throughout the book.”— Philadelphia Record. 

“ A more powerful invective against the reigning and popular society evils has 
rarely been written, with so fine a blending of the elements of reproach and con¬ 
demnation, rage and pity, sarcasm and pathos.”— Boston Courier. 


The Mighty Atom. 

l2mo. Red buckram, $1.25 ; paper, 50 cents. 

“Such a book as * The Mighty Atom’ can scarcely fail in accomplishing a vast 
amount of good. It should be on the shelves of every public library in England 
and America. Marie Corelli has many remarkable qualities as a writer of fiction. 
Her style is singularly clear and alert, and she is the most independent of thinkers 
and authors of fiction ; but her principal gift is an imagination which rises on a bold 
and easy wing to the highest heaven of invention.”— Boston Home Journal. 


Vendetta; or, The Story of One Forgotten. 

i2mo. Buckram, $1.00. 

“ The story is Italian, the time 1884, and the precise stage of the acts, Naples, 
during the last visitation of the cholera. A romance, but a romance of reality. 
No mind of man can imagine incidents so wonderful, so amazing, as those of actual 
occurrence.”— Washington National Republican. 


ISSUED IN THE LOTOS LIBRARY. 

Jane. 

i6mo. Polished buckram, 75 cents. 

“ It is a sympathetic tale, full of admirable contrast between the old-fashioned 
and the new.”— Washington Times. 


J. B. L1PP1NCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 







By Rachel Penn. 

[Mrs. E. S. Willard.] 


A Son of Israel. 

i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

" The picture of the Russian ghetto impresses us, like Zangwill's own sketches, 
with its seemingly truthful realism. And delightful creations, truly, are the little 
dark-eyed dancer, Salome, and her family, and the ancient La Meldola. The 
interior of Michael’s household gives us an excellent view of Russian family life. 
In fact, exceptional praise is due the author, who is said to be the wife of Edwin 
S. Willard, the actor.”— The Philadelphia Record. 

“ Rachel Penn need have no fears about allowing her work to stand upon its 
merits. ‘A Son of Israel’ is a powerful and fascinating contribution to current 
fiction having a deep religious coloring, of which * Quo Vadis’ and ‘ Fabius the 
Roman’ are notable examples The scene of the story is laid in Russia, and its 
predominating theme is the bitter hostility of the Russian nobility toward the much 
despised Jew. David Rheba, a skilled silversmith, is the central figure, and his 
strong yet pure and simple Christian character is drawn with wonderful clearness.” 
— The Minneapolis Tribune. 

“ ‘ A Son of Israel; an Original Story,’ by Rachel Penn, has a dangerous 
title, for original stories were never common, and are now scarcer than ever, but 
the characterization is justified by the contents. It is as odd a tale as will often 
be seen.”— Springfield Republican. 

“ It is an open secret that Rachel Penn, whose first serious venture in fiction, 
‘ A Son of Israel,’ is in reality the wife of Mr. E. S. Willard, the well-known Eng¬ 
lish actor. Mrs. Willard was formerly an actress, and, like her husband, began 
her career under the auspices of the late E. A. Sothern, of Lord Dundreary fame. 
After playing opposite roles for several seasons, the two were married, Mrs. Willard 
retiring soon afterwards from the stage. As she has no children to occupy her 
thoughts, and lacks the physique to endure the strain of accompanying her husband 
on his lengthy tours in the United States and elsewhere, Mrs. Willard has for several 
years devoted much time to literary work.”— New York Commercial Advertiser. 

“ Fine dramatic qualities mark ‘ A Son of Israel,’ which is not to be wondered 
at when we learn that the supposed author is Mrs. E. S. Willard, wife of the actor, 
using the pseudonym Rachel Penn. The writer has abandoned the commonplace 
in devising a plot, and shows literary skill as well as spirit and vivacity in the nar¬ 
ration.”— Philadelphia Press. 

“ The story fairly bristles with melodrama, and contains incident enough for 
any three ordinary books, while a complete list of the drajnatis persona , which 
range all the way from an ex-ballet dancer to a buyer for an English firm of 
dealers in curios, and from serfs to the Czarowitz himself, would tax the limits 
of the longest handbill.”— New York Commercial Advertiser. 

“ ‘ A Son of Israel’ is a timely book. Of peculiar interest now, the book 
will be read, appreciated, and condemned. It is a novel of feeling, a novel buili 
out of the suffering sympathy of a woman's heart for the oppressed of her people 
and of her God.”— Chattanooga Tunes. 


J. B. L1PP1NCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 




RECENT FICTION 


By L. Cope Cornford. 

The Master-Beggars. 

l2mo. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50. 

‘‘A well-told and exciting story of the sixteenth century that breathlessly 
hurries the reader along in the strong current of its plot. We commend the work 
to ad those who are fond of an adventurous story artistically told."— Boston 
Evening Gazette. 


By T. C. DeLeon. 

The Pride of the Mercers. 

l2mo. Cloth, deckle edges, #1.25. 

“ A historical story of Southern life in the period subsequent to the War of the 
Rebellion. The plot is somewhat intricate and is skilfully handled. The actors 
take strong hold of the reader, and the book is full of vitality. It deals with crime 
and even tragedy, yet it is a helpful, wholesome story, as well as one of much 
more than ordinary interest and power.”— Boston Congregationalism. 


By Julia Magruder. 

Dead Selves. 

I2mo. Cloth, ornamental, $ 1 . 2 5. 

“ The story is a suggestive study of a peculiar situation, and the problem 
involved is worked out with surprising ingenuity. It is a strong story, oftentimes 
dramatic in its treatment and action. It is a love story, but by no means an 
ordinary one."— Utica Herald. 


By Clinton Ross. 

Chalmette. 

Cloth extra, deckle edges, with frontispiece, $1.50. 

“Clinton Ross writes fiction with an easy touch of graceful vivacity and a 
rush of impulsive incident that are shown in ‘ Chalmette ' He has done nothing 
better either in respect of construction, of rapid character sketching, or of style. 
The story is essentially interesting and the tone of romantic drama is well sus. 
tained.”— Philadelphia Press. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 


PHILADELPHIA. 








RECENT FICTION 


By Adelaide Skeel and William H. Brearley. 

King Washington. 

A Romance of the Hudson Highlands. Illustrated. i2mo. 

Cloth, #1.25. 

“ A unique historical novel, filled with stirring incidents and closing with a 
startling denouement. The”plot is laid in that period of time when Washington 
was the hero of the day, and many of the incidents of his career enter into the 
tale. Many of Washington’s officers appear, and groups of ladies who followed 
the camp and made it bright with social gayeties .”—Detroit Tribune. 


By Meta Orred. 

“ Glamour .” 

A Romance. i2mo. Cloth, deckle edges, $1.2 5. 

“ The scenes are laid in the early days of chivalry, the characters are 
chivalric, manly, womanly, and helpful to the average reader, though surrounded 
by the availing environments of the ideal. The novel is a strong one, and dis¬ 
closes the masterly touches of an artist and interpreter from beginning to close of 
the book .”—Boston Courier. 


By Cockburn Harvey. 

The Light that Lies. 

With decorations in the text and seven full-page illustrations, by 
F. McKernan. i6mo. Cloth, gilt top, 75 cents. 

New Edition , issued in paper, 35 cents. 

“ The narrative is to be commended for its agreeable lightness and its un¬ 
forced humor. The egotism and stupidity of Mr. Merton are very happily ex¬ 
pressed ; the manner in which his best laid plans ‘ gang aft a-gley’ is exceedingly 
droll ; and the story of his heart-history is presented in a very enticing form.”— 
New York Times. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 






By A. Conan Doyle. 

A Desert Drama. 

Being the Tragedy of the Korosko. With thirty-two full-page 
illustrations. i2mo. Cloth, ornamental, $1.50. 

The author has a splendid chance to use his descriptive powers and splendid 
material to draw contrasts in nationalities and to compare civilization with bar¬ 
barity. This he has done very successfully, and the ‘Desert Drama’ forms an 
interesting narrative. Besides his splendid description of the desert and his por¬ 
traiture of the cruel Dervishes and their fierce religious zeal, the author has given 
each of his characters a distinctiveness which is marked out very cleverly.”— 
Philadelphia Evening Telegraph. 

Full of excitement and passing from one crisis to another with true dramatic 
force. The author has- been inexorable, too, for a novelist of his usually amiable 
predilections. He started out to tell a tragic tale, and he adheres to his purpose, 
two of his travellers losing their lives in the bitter misfortune befalling the party 
that comes up the Nile through Nubia so gayly and so fearlessly. The happiness 
of the people on the Korosko is turned to woe of the most terrifying description, 
just how we leave the reader to find out for himself, only noting that Dr. Doyle 
has struck out on a line comparatively new for him in this book, and that he has 
treated it with no diminution of his skill as a narrator. The book is readable from 
beginning to end .”—New York Tribune. 

“With the opening paragraph, the reader’s interest is awakened, to remain 
and to gain in attentiveness with the progress and development of the plot to the 
final chapter. A novel in which the imagination of its author is observed to 
broaden out and to search for incident beyond ordinary fields of discovery, and 
yet to adorn the narrative it weaves with a staying interest that is both living and 
timely—such a novel possesses not a little of the spirit of the busy, purposeful 
days in which we live, and contains virility enough and striking motif, sufficient to 
render it at once and lastingly popular. Those qualities Dr. Doyle’s latest novel 
has in a telling degree. It is thoroughly a novel of to-day, full of interest, spirited, 
thrilling, and bright with the most vivid of pictures for the surpassing pleasure 
both of the traveler and the stay-at-home. The author has evidently visited the 
places of which he so fluently and pleasurably writes, and has been a participator 
in some stirring desert scenes, or he surely could not have written so acceptably 
of them as he does in the present tale .”—Boston Courier. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 




By Florence Belknap Gilmour. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 


LEON DE TINSEAU. 
l2mo. Cloth, $1.00 per volume. 


In Quest of the Ideal. 


“ It possesses distinct interest, and there are not a few passages which com* 
mand our deepest feelings.”— Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 

“ This story owes much of its charm to the skill of the translator, Florence 
Belknap Gilmour, who has translated several other of this author’s books, and who 
has been able to catch his style in a way rarely met with. The characters are care¬ 
fully and naturally drawn, and there is a great deal of dialogue which is bright.”— 
Boston Times. 

“ The story has a strong, uplifting tone throughout, and the seriousness and 
the crusading spirit of these modern seekers for the ideal, is shared by every indi¬ 
vidual in the novel, as well as by the reader. The translator reproduces the original 
with a master knowledge. Her choice of words is smooth and easy, and they 
convey exactly the meaning the author meant they should .”—Boston Courier. 


A Forgotten Debt. 


“ The story reads as if it were a true life tale, told simply and with none of 
the unpleasant element found repulsive to American taste in many of the latest 
French novels. It is healthful and hearty, and well suited for summer’s day peru¬ 
sal by old or young.”— Boston Transcript. 

" A very interesting novel which tells of life in the French provinces and me¬ 
tropolis, and also in an American frontier military post, and depicts the local 
atmosphere of all three—a difficult feat, which shows the versatility and analytical 
and descriptive powers of the author. The plot is interesting, and holds the atten¬ 
tion of the reader from beginning to end.”— Detroit Tribune. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 







JUST PUBLISHED. 


THE DAUGHTERS 

OF BABYLON. 

A New Copyright Novel. 

BY 

r II,SON BARRETT and ROBERT HICHENS 

With Frontispiece. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

NIFORM WITH “THE SIGN OF THE CROSS,” 
BY WILSON BARRETT. 


“The Daughters of Babylon,” by Wilson 
arrett and Robert Hichens, is based upon 
Mr. Barrett’s play of the same name. The 
combination of the author of “The Sign of 
the Cross” with the author of “The Green 
Carnation,” “An Imaginative Man,” and 
“Flames,” has resulted in a powerful and 
imaginative story. 

For Sale by all Booksellers. 


J. B. I/IPPINCOTT COMPANY, 


PUBLISHERS, 


PHILADELPHIA. 








NEW FICTION. 


A TROOPER GALAHAD. 

By Captain Charles King, U.S.A. i2mo. Cloth. 

With frontispiece. $1.00. 

“ Captain Charles King is always entertaining, and his ‘ A Trooper 
Galahad’ will be read with no small degree of interest. It is a story 
of the Southwest, and there are excellent character sketches and 
pictures of life at a frontier post.”— St. Louis Globe-Democrat . 

THE TAMING OF THE JUNGLE. 

By Dr. C. W. Doyle. i2mo. Cloth, ornamental, 

$1.00. 

Mr. Kipling has still left untouched many phases of life in India, 
and one of the most interesting of these is the basis of a story of 
much power, “ The Taming,of the Jungle.” 

MR., MISS, AND MRS. 

By Charles Bloomingdale, Jr. (“ Karl”). Tall 

i2mo. Cloth, ornamental, $1.25. 

Clever society stories of men and women are these of Mr. Bloom- 
in gdale’s, and many curious phases of life are depicted in these tales 
so full of interest. 

THE WIND-JAMMERS. 

By T. Jenkins Hains, author of “ Captain Gore’s 
Courtship,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, ornamental, $1.25. 

“ T. Jenkins Hains is to be congratulated upon spinning a better, 
more natural, vigorous, and thrilling yarn than any other modern 
writer of this class of fiction excepting Russell.”— New York World. 

A TRIPLE ENTANGLEMENT. 

By Mrs. Burton Harrison, author of “A Bachelor 
Maid,” “Sweet Bells Out of Tune,” “Good Ameri¬ 
cans,” etc. With illustrations. i 2mo. Cloth, orna¬ 
mental, $1.25. 

In “ A Triple Entanglement” Mrs. Burton Harrison has sketched 
a charming love story with the sweetest of heroines and a very manly, 
yet lovable hero. It is a story of well-sustained interest, written in 
Mrs. Harrison’s best style. 


FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 

J. B. Llppincott Company, Publishers, 

PHILADELPHIA. 







































